University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


NOT  A  MAN, 


AND 


YET  A  MAN: 


BY 


A.  A.  WHITMAN. 


SPRINGFIELD,  OHIO, 
sri- 

1877. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1877,  by  A.  A.  Whit 
man,  in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


DEDICATION. 


TO  THOSE  WHO  LOVED  THE  NEGRO  IN  MANKIND, 

AND  PITIED  HIM, 
AND  STOOPED  TO  HELP  HIM  IN  HIS  LOW  ESTATE, 

ASSAILED  BY  FIERCE  OPINIONS, 
AND  TOLD  HIS  GRIEVANCES  IN  THE  EAR  OF  GOD, 

UNTIL  HE  HEARD  THEM, 

AND  SHOOK  PROUD  SLAVERY  ON  HlS  LAP  OF  STORM, 
AND  SHOOK  THE  FETTERS  FROM  THE  BONDMAN'S  ARMS, 
AND  SHOOK  OPPRESSION  FROM  THE  NATION'S   HEART. 

TO  THOSE, 

WHO   SAFE  NOW  IN  THE  CITADEL  OF  RIGHT, 
THEIR  CONQUESTS  HEARING   ON  THE  TONGUE  OF  TIME, 
THEIR  TRIUMPHS  READING  IN  YOUNG  FREEDOM'S  EYES, 

AND  LOOKING  FORWARD, 

THE  FULL  FRUITION  OF  THEIR  BRIGHT  HOPES  SEE, 

THE  NATIONS  OF  ALL  EARTH  FOREVER  FREE. 

TO   THOSE, 

THE  ABOLITION  FATHERS — 
THIS  BOOK  is  INSCRIBED 

BY  THE 

AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 

I  was  born  in  the  Green  River  Country,  Hart 
County,  Kentucky,  May  30th,  1851.  I  was  a 
slave  until  the  Emancipation.  My  parents  left  me 
and  went  to  the  Good  Land  when  I  was  yet  a  boy. 
My  chances  for  an  education  have  not  been  good. 
In  that  matter,  however,  I  have  done  what  I  could. 
I  have  labored  with  my  hands,  taught  school,  and 
preached  a  RISEN,  present  Savior — not  a  bad  lot 
after  all.  I  am  now  an  Elder  in  the  African  Meth 
odist  Episcopal  Church,  the  stationed  pastor  at 
Springfield,  Ohio,  and  General  Financial  Agent  of 
Wilberforce  University.  With  this  brief  account  of 
myself,  I  pass  to  notice  the  Institution  in  whose  in 
terest  I  have  written,  and  whose  permanent  endow 
ment  I  hope  to  secure. 

Wilberforce  University  is  situated  three  and  one- 
half  miles  North-East  of  Xenia,  Greene  County, 
Ohio ;  surrounded  by  beautiful  farms,  and  from  the 
West,  looked  down  upon  by  a  group  of  heavily  wood 
ed  hills.  It  is  one  of  the  most  desirable  College 
sites  in  Ohio.  The  locality  is  eminently  healthy.  A 


6  PREFACE. 

considerable  creek,  winding  around  the  grounds  to 
the  Southward,  drains  the  neighboring  fields,  and 
gives  the  whole  surrounding  an  admirably  neat 
aspect.  A  number  of  fine  springs  break  out  in  the 
deep  ravines  around  the  College,  bubbling  and 
laughing,  with  lucid  health  sparkling  in  their  faces. 
The  campus  is  laid  out  on  a  beautiful  plateau,  lying 
South-East  of  the  University,  and  covered  by  a 
splendid  grove  with  here  and  there  a  neat  cottage 
among  the  trees. 

THE   BUILDING. 

The  University  Building  is  of  substantial  brick 
and  slate  roofed.  The  rooms  are  large  and  airy. 
The  accommodations  good.  Probable  value  of 
buildings  and  grounds,  (52  acres),  sixty-five  thous 
and  dollars  [$65,000.00].  No  incumbrances. 

MISSION. 

The  school,  though  under  the  auspices  of  the  A. 
M,  E.  Church,  is  STRICTLY  NON-SECTARIAN  in  its  pre 
tensions,  and  has,  as  its  general  mission,  the  impart 
ing  of  CHRISTIAN  EDUCATION  to  the  colored  race.  The 
special  mission  of  the  Normal  and  Scientific  De 
partments  is  the  preparation  of  Christian  Teachers 
for  Southern  fields  of  labor.  The  Theological  De 
partment  has,  as  its  special  work,  the  training  of  ef- 


PREFACE.  7 

ficient  preachers,  to  carry  an  enlightened  Gospel 
among  the  freedmen. 

The  great  and  good  founder  of  the  institution, 
Bishop  D.  A.  Payne,  D.  D.,  has  lived  to  see  much  of 
the  fruits  of  his  labor  in  the  last  named  department. 
Bishop  Payne  came  to  the  Presidency  of  the  Uni 
versity  when  in  its  trembling  infancy,  and  for  fifteen 
years  holding  up  the  motto,  "  LIKE  PRIEST,  LIKE  PEO 
PLE,"  he  cried  in  the  ears  of  the  churches :  "  Give  us 
educated  preachers  for  the  freedmen,"  until  many 
big  hearted  and  good  young  men  rose  up  and  follow 
ed  him.  His  successor,  the  Rev.  Benjamin  F.  Lee, 
B.  D.,  one  of  his  students,  shows  that  he  lacks  noth 
ing  of  his  master's  spirit,  efficient  in  training,  strong 
in  intellect,  replete  in  goodness  and  supported  by  a 
Faculty  who  share  his  rare  qualities ;  he  goes  right 
to  work  with  a  VIM  that  means  inspiration. 

THE  OBJECT  OF  THIS  PUBLICATION. 

My  object  in  placing  these  verses  before  an  intel 
ligent  people  is,  First,  to  carry  to  their  minds  the 
purpose  of  the  founders  of  Wilberforce.  That  pur 
pose,  as  stated  in  the  last  Catalogue  of  the  Institu 
tion,  is  "  An  aim  to  inspire  and  increase  in  the  pu 
pil  self-respect,  self-control  and  self-development." 

Now  may  I  not  hope  that,  however  imperfect  or 
faulty  these  lines  may  be,  they  will,  in  some  meas- 


8  PREFACE. 

ure,  show  "  self-development."  And  this  is  the  very 
thing  most  needed  among  the  poor  colored  young 
men  of  our  country ;  and  hence,  an  EMPHASIS  of  the 
claims  of  Wilberforce  upon  those  who  are  interested 
in  the  welfare  of  the  freedman.  Very  few  of  the 
colored  students  of  our  land,  there  are,  who  can  de 
pend  upon  their  parents  for  efficient  aid  in  going  to 
school.  Too  many,  alas,  like  the  author,  have  NO 
parents,  NO  aid.  How  wise  then  the  encouragement 
of  an  educational  system  of  "  self-development.*' 
With  the  motto,  "  ECONOMY,  THRIFT,  MANHOOD,"  the 
humble,  poor  young  man,  finds  his  way  out  of  ob 
scurity  into  usefulness. 

The  founders  of  Wilberforce,  knowing  best  the 
needs  of  the  classes  among  which  she  was  destined 
to  operate,  knew  best  how  to  supply  them ;  and  in 
this  arrangement  they  have  been  happy.  The  poor 
young  man,  without  preparatory  training,  coming  to 
Wilberforce,  soon  learns  to  study  out  problems  for 
himself,  and  hence,  to  THINK  for  himself.  He  learns 
that  if  he  cannot  excel,  he  CAN  do  something  else — 
he  can  do  WHAT  he  can — he  can  try — he  can  dare  to 
fail.  He  soon  learns  the  difference  between  a  suc 
cessful  DO-NOTHING,  and  an  honorable  failure.  If  such 
a  young  man  leaves  Wilberforce  between  terms,  to 
gather  means  for  his  support,  MARK  YOU,  he  will  re- 


PREFACE.  9 

turn,  and  not  only  that,  he  will  bring  up  his  studies 
with  him. 

The  production  of  NOT  A  MAN,  AND  YET  A  MAN, 
whatever  it  is,  is  owing  to  that  spirit  of  u'self-devel 
opment "  which  Wilberforce  inspire?. 

Secondly,  my  object  in  publishing  is,  to  introduce 
myself  to  the  people.  Those  who  read  will  feel  ac 
quainted  with  me.  Some  may  think  well  of  me,  and 
even  INVITE  me  to  talk  with  them  about  our  Wilber 
force.  There  is  nothing  like  being  kindly  thought 
of  by  a  people  before  you  go  among  them.  Certain 
ly  none  will  despise  the  effort. 

And  now,  dear  public,  NOT  A  MAN,  AND  YET  A  MAN, 
comes  to  your  doors,  let  him  in  !  As  to  his  merits, 
let  readers  judge. 

Our  canvassers  get  ONLY  such  part  of  the  sales  as 
will  help  them  honestly  to  live.  Purchase,  there 
fore,  remembering  that  your  mite  goes  to  the  aid  of 
a  noble  cause,  and,  if  any  one,  after  having  read, 
feel  to  give  of  his  earthly  goods  more  largely,  let 
him  send  such  donations  to  the  author  at  Springfield, 
Ohio. 

Letters  of  comment  on  the  merits  of  this  work, 
and  also  of  encouragement  for  Wilberforce,  are  SIN 
CERELY  solicited  of  the  reader,  by 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PROLOGUE. 


The  shepherd-king  of  Judah's  olden  days, 
Waked  his  sweet  harp  to  sing  Jehovah's  praise, 
Then  this  his  theme  was  in  his  happy  hour : 
"Captivity  hath  lost  her  horn  of  power. 
The  mighty  Arm  hath  broke  oppression's  staff, 
And  drives  the  spoiler's  hosts,  as  wind  drives  chaff, 
And  moves  his  kingdoms  as  the  thistle  down, 
By  wanton  whirlwinds  here  and  there  is  blown !" 

How  panting  thousands  of  his  faithful  tribe, 
Drank  this  sweet  strain,  no  mortal  can  describe. 
Young  freedom  then  first  raised  his  voice  sublime, 
And  spoke  his  triumphs  in  the  ear  of  Time. 
The  soldier  sang  it  on  his  tented  hill, 
The  maiden  at  her  toilsome  slow  hand-mill ; 
The  shepherd  piped  it  where  he  sauntered  'mong 
His  bleating  folds,  and  desert  paths  along ;      • 
And  morn  and  eventide,  the  Temple's  choir 
Poured  forth  the  strain,  by  matron  joined  and  sire. 
The  wilderness  and  solitary  waste, 
With  gladsome  music  woke,  and  joyous  haste; 
Engedi's  palmy  hills  their  voices  gave, 


1 2  PROLOGUE. 

And  echo  answered  from  the  prophet's  cave ; — 

"Ye  seed  of  Jacob  sound  the  jubilee, 

The  Lord  hath  triumphed  and  His  hosts  are  free. 

Spread  thro'  the  heathen's  land  the  joyous  news, 

The  Mighty  God  's  the  refuge  of  the  Jews  ! 

Our  shield  and  strength,  our  everlasting  Sun, 

And  who  shall  gainsay  what  His  hand  hath  done  ?" 

Their  sister  nations  heard  the  swelling  strain, 

And  ages  answered  ages  back  again, 

Till  yet  along  the  march  of  centuries 

The  idea  of  God  and  Freedom  flies. 

Sweet  strain !  How  rapture  in  it  yet  is  heard 

Wherever  righteousness  her  horn  hath  reared  ! 

Remoteness  lends  a  sweetness  to  the  sound 

By  changes  undisturbed,  by  lore  not  bound. 

It  lives  while  empires  sink  and  pass  away, 

Wisdoms  go  out,  and  languages  decay. 

High  o'er  the  heights  of  tall  ambitions  gaze, 
Beyond  proud  emulation's  wildest  maze, 
And  Freedom  there  hath  set  her  glorious  stars, 
Eternal  more  than  Jupiter  or  Mars. 
Her  Washington  rides  first  upon  our  sky, 
Lending  his  brilliance  to  the  thousands  nigh. 
Next  Lincoln,  whom  a  grateful  nation  mourns, 
Shoots  blazing  from  the  age  which  he  adorns. 
Sinks  on  the  eve  of  dreadful  war's  alarms, 
But  sinks  with  a  saved  nation  in  his  arms ! 


PROLOGUE.  .  13 

And  Old  John  Brown  of  Harper's  Ferry  fame, 

Peace  to  his  shade,  and  honor  to  his  name, 

The  negro's  light  of  hope,  the  friend  of  right, 

Looms  on  life's  deep,  a  melancholy  light; 

The  comet  of  his  age,  ominous,  lone, 

And  saddest  that  on  earth  has  ever  shone. 

But  peerless  champion  of  Equal  Rights, 

Great  Sumner  STANDS,  like  those  majestic  hights 

That  guard  New  England  shores  from  Ocean's  shocks, 

With  lifted  arms  of  everlasting  rocks ; 

And  with  the  strength  of  ages  in  their  locks. 

'Twas  he  who,  on  his  bosom,  bore  a  race, 

And  met  their  proud  oppressor  face  to  face ; 

Rose  like  some  Ajax,  in  his  ponderous  strength, 

And  drove  his  lance,  with  all  its  trenchant  length, 

Full  on  the  brazen  disk  of  slav'ry's. shield, 

Until  the  monster  wrong,  beneath  it  reeled. 

And  when  the  smoke  of  war  had  cleared  away, 

And  in  the  nation's  sky  there  broke  new  day ; 

'Twas  he,  who,  mailed  in  all  the  might  of  lore, 

The  valiant  friends  of  mankind  went  before, 

To  wipe  the  blots  of  caste  from  freedom's  code, 

And  all  its  axioms  of  wrong  explode ; 

Lift  equal  justice  up,  exalt  her  laws, 

And  in  her  temple  plead  the  black  man's  cause. 

Let  love  lorn  bards  illuminate  their  lays, 

With  moonlight  soft,  and  sing  some  Juno's  praise ; 


1 4  PROLOGUE. 

Or  whine  with  cadence  sweet,  and  sickly  sweet, 
Their  few  torn  hopes  at  some  Diana's  feet; 
Let  school-house  heroes  rave  around  the  walls, 
Where  patriotism  rises,  treason  falls, 
Sing  loud  heroics  of  a  glorious  strand, 
A  freedom's  eagle,  and  a  white  man's  land ; 
Let  fools  pass  by  and  wag  their  empty  heads, 
Deride  the  sons  of  Slavery's  humble  sheds, 
And  statesmen  prate  of  law  and  precedence, 
My  pen  appeals  to  right  and  common  sense. 
The  black  man  has  a  cause,  deny  who  dares, 
And  him  to  vindicate  my  muse  prepares. 
A  part  of  this  great  nation's  hist'ry,  he 
Has  made  in  valor  and  fidelity. 
His  sweat  has  poured  to  swell  our  ample  stores, 
His  blood  run  freely  to  defend  our  shores ; 
And  prayers  ascended  to  the  Lord  of  all, 
To  save  the  nation  from  a  direful  fall. 

Who  has  not  felt  in  childhood's  heart  the  thrill 
Of  bloody  Georgetown  and  of  Bunker's  Hill  ? 
Who  has  not  heard  the  drums  of  freedom  swell, 
When  Putnam  triumphed  and  when  Warren  fell? 
Proud  were  our  sires,  Ticonderoga's  boast, 
Fearless  defenders  of  Atlantic's  coast. 
When  from  fair  freedom's  terraced  hights,  we  turn 
A  backward  gaze,  our  grateful  bosoms  burn, 
To  see  those  heroes  with  red  battle  clenched, 


PROLOGUE. 

Till  in  brave  blood  their  humble  fields  are  drenched. 

With  Valley  Forge's  snowy  locks  to  see 

The  desp'rate  fingers  of  young  liberty, 

Grappling,  and  see  his  valiant  misery ; 

And  then  o'er  Delaware's  rough  wint'ry  stream, 

To  see  a  thousand  loyal  muskets  gleam 

In  night's  cold  face ;  and  hear  the  strong  brave  oars 

That  meet  the  hurrying  ice  between  the  shores ! 

And  can  we  then  forget  that  patriots,  black, 

Marched  with  white  brothers  to  the  dread  attack  ? 

And  when  in  these  late  years,  the  war  fiend  came, 
On  tempest  horsed,  and  waved  a  sword  of  flame, 
When  giant  treason  shook  his  locks  of  gore, 
And  from  the  East  to  West  the  Union  tore ; 
When  our  free  institutions  shook  and  reeled, 
Hope  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  battle-field; 
And  loyal  hearts  that  ne'er  before  had  quaked, 
Then  quaked,  and  all  their  hoarded  riches  staked. 
A  nation's  hands  were  then  imploring  raised, 
While  freedom's  arch  with  bolts  of  ruin  blazed. 
Where  then  the  prowess  of  a  century, 
The  loud  boast  of  white-handed  chivalry  ? 
Where,  when  in  triumph  wild,  the  Southern  hordes 
Unbent  their  strength,  and  drew  their  fearless  swords? 
Ah !  well,  we  prayed,  and  God  in  his  own  time, 
His  sable  answer  sent  on  Dixie's  clime. 
The  strong  armed  negro  threw  off  slavery's  yoke, 


1 6  PROLOGUE. 

And  loud  as  thunder  on  the  world's  ear  broke 
His  shouts  of  ONWARD  !  To  the  front  he  went, 
And  in  the  smoke  and  din  of  battle  blent, 
With  brothers  white,  where  color  nothing  meant. 
And  there,  till  our  victorious  banner  swept 
Once  more  the  hights  of  freedom,  and  we  wept 
For  joy,  he  stood  beneath  our  startlit  dome, 
Until  a  grateful  UNION  called  him  home. 

Now  let  the  nation  fling  him  from  her  arms, 
Forget  the  part  he  bore,  when  war's  alarms 
Were  rumbling  hoarsely  in  her  troubled  ear, 
And  direful  overthrow  was  plainly  near; 
Forget  the  hands  that  caught  her  falling  stars, 
And  tore  loud  triumph  from  the  flaunting  bars 
Of  treason ;  yea,  despise  the  sable  race, 
And  music  then  will  breathe  the  name  with  praise  I 


NOT  A   MAN,  AND  YET  A    MAN. 


THE  MOVERS. 


'Twas  in  the  long  ago, 
'Twas  in  the  age  of  woods 
Of  Young  America, 
That  moving,  rattling,  slow 
Towards  the  Western  plain, 
A  single  settler's  train, 
Drawn  on  by  oxen  teams, 
Was  seen,  as  when  in  dreams, 
Strange  sights  and  solitudes, 
Upon  our  vision  play. 

The  tall  forests  swim  in  a  crimson  sea, 
Out  of  whose  bright  depths  rising  silently, 
Great  golden  spires  shoot  into  the  skies, 
Among  the  isles  of  cloud-land  high,  that  rise, 
Float,  scatter,  burst,  drift  off,  and  slowly  fade, 
Deep  in  the  twilight,  shade  succeeding  shade. 
And  by  yon  leaning  rocks  beneath  the  hill 
\Vhose  sloping  base,  a  peaceful  streamlet  laves, 
With  fitful  joyance  bubbling  in  its  waves, 


1 8  NOT  A  MAN, 

The  train  guard  pausing,  winds  his  signal  shrill. 

Long  roll  the  echoes,  and  the  patient  train, 

In  order  halt  along  the  silent  plain. 

From  under  wagon  covers  eight  or  nine, 

Two  anxious  rows  of  female  faces  shine, 

And  whispers  buzz  from  lips  to  lips  around : 

41  That's  Rodney's  horn  ! "     "  Is  this  the  camping  ground?  " 

Loud  low  the  oxen,  leaning  in  their  gear, 

Replying  heifers  low  along  the  rear ; 

And  ere  the  seated  driver  drops  his  threads, 

Come  leaping  on  and  toss  their  hornless  heads. 

Mark  how  enjoyment  this  wild  scene  pervades, 

How  ruddy  maidens  vie  with  ruddy  maids  ; 

These  gathering  fagots  from  yon  lofty  wood; 

They  ranging  vessels  and  preparing  food; 

While  seated  round,  their  lordly  umpires  rest 

On  upturned  stones,  and  view  them  doubly  blest, 

Such  were  the  scenes  the  early  travelers  met, 

When  they  towards  the  West  their  faces  set. 

Then,  movers  all  their  earthly  ware  would  load, 

And  drive  a  whole  great  farm  of  stock  upon  the  road. 

Moving  was  moving  then.     The  house  cat  e'en, 

High  in  her  sleepy  reign  was  onward  seen, 

Riding,  among  utensils  old  and  rare, 

And  roost  and  all,  the  ancient  cock  was  there ; 

And  thro'  the  silent  forest  blew  his  horn, 

By  day  occasional,  but  always  night  and  morn. 


AND  YET  A    MAN.  19 

SAVILLB. 

Fair  Saville !  earliest  village  of  the  wood, 
To  break  the  reign  of  ancient  soltitude, 
Where  erst  the  dusky  tennants  of  the  shade, 
Along  the  Mississippi's  waters  strayed ; 
Thou  once  did  flourish  on  the  lap  of  fame, 
When  to  thy  rude    abodes    adventure's   wand'ring  footsteps 
came. 

I  turn  with  reverential  step  and  slow, 
To  trace  the  scenes  my  recollections  know. 
Where  now  thy  cliffs  bleak  winter's  wiles  oppose, 
When  through  the  screeching  air  his  blasts  he  throws, 
There  warring  totems  once  prolonged  their  stay, 
And  then  e'en  with  reluctance  went  their  way. 
And  where  yon  blossomed  fields,  and  orchards  green, 
Fresh  meadows,  and  contented  flocks  are  seen, 
There  erst  the  Indian  reared  his  wigwam  rude, 
Deep  in  the  wide  forest's  pathless  solitude. 

Dear  to  me  yet,  and  every  day  more  dear, 
Familiar  sounds  revive  upon  my  ear; 
Familiar  scenes  come  to  me  o'er  the  past, 
And  I,  recoiling  from  the  Future  vast, 
Revisit  in  my  dreams  and  solitude, 
The  pleasant  places  of  thy  borders  rude. 


20  NOT  A    MAN, 

Thus,  when  from  tempest-brooding  heav'ns  I  fly ; 
When  life's  meridian's  in  a  pensive  sky, 
Back  to  the  charms  of  other  days  I  come, 
And  seem  a  traveler  returning  home. 

Then  cumbrous  backwoods  life  wide  o'er  the  vale, 
Heard  a  responsive  tongue  in  every  gale. 
Loud  baying  hounds  pressed  hard  the  fleety  deer, 
Replying  horns  pursued  along  the  rear, 
Wild  song  attuned  the  breezy  throat  of  morn ; 
The  plowman  whistled  to  his  growing  corn, 
And  lads  with  hoes,  garrulous  as  they  went, 
Close  on  his  heels  their  nimble  footsteps  bent. 
And  there  was  heard  from  morn  till  evening  late 
The  various  accents  of  a  happy  state, 
The  waste  echoing  to  the  axe  remote,. 
The  anvil  groaning  as  the  blacksmith  smote, 
The  plashy  labors  of  the  slumb'rous  mill, 
The  brook  reposing  as  the  wheel  stood  still ; 
Loud  shouts  arising  childhood's  sports  among, 
And  matrons  scolding  as  their  flax  wheels  sung. 

And  often  gathered  when  the  joyous  Spring, 
Had  livened  Winter's  latest  lingering, 
When  all  the  voiceless  wastes  of  recent  gloom 
Awoke  to  song  and  warbled  into  bloom ; 
Beneath  the  spreading  shades  that  arch  yon  green 
In  happy  groups  the  village  train  were  seen. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  21 

Near  where  yon  footpath  climbs  behind  the  town, 

And  straggles  off  into  a  hazel  down, 

Their  wonted  sports  through  shining  hours  would  stray," 

Till  time  unnoticed  brought  the  close  of  day; 

And  silent  wheeling,  scarce  above  the  fence, 

The  crooked  bat  did  aimless  flights  commence; 

Slow-toned  the  cow-bell,  and  sad  whippoorwill 

Mourned  in  her  darkling  copse  behind  the  hill. 

Then  when  the  tasks  of  ev'ning  all  were  done, 

Around  the  blazing  hearth  new  sports  begun; 

When  corn  was  pestled  for  the  next  day's  meals, 

The  bands  were  slackened  on  their  cumb'rous  wheels, 

The  woodsman  from  his  labor  had  come  home 

And  plowmen  from  their  furrows  wearysome ; 

Loud  glee  pursued  the  "  blind  man  "  round  and  round, 

Till  roaring  laughter  tripped  him  to  the  ground. 

The  "old  gray  witch,"  slow-motioned,  then  would  stare, 

While  the  gay  rompers  felt  a  secret  scare,— 

Went  crouching  from  her,  dodged  from  wall  to  wall, 

Or  in  the  corners  scrambling,  tumbled  all. 

Thus  poured  the  murmuring  tide  of  childish  mirth, 

While  sober  converse  leaned  around  the  hearth, 

And  weighty  matters  in  each  earnest  breast, 

Beguiling  time,  prolonged  the  way  to  rest. 

Oh  happy  times  of  man's  innocency ! 

When  earth  was  as  like  Heaven  as  could  be, 

When  simple  relish  made  each  sport  more  dear, 


22  NOT  A    MAN, 

Delayed  the  seasons  and  prolonged  the  year. 

Within  yon  rude-built  pile  with  gables  gray, 

With  which  the  wanton  blasts  of  Winter  play, 

When  all  disconsolate  they  moan  and  fret, 

The  simple  council  of  the  village  met. 

Where  mutual  interests  called  them  to  consult    . 

Life's  surest  course,  and  probable  result. 

Hark !  yon  small  rusty  bell  shakes  from  its  throat 

A  few  slow  sounds,  the  assembling  hour  to  note. 

No  paid  men  patriotic  speeches  make, 

No  brazen  instruments  their  music  wake, 

Nor  pages  pass  their  sparkling  draughts  around, 

And  yet  the  weight  of  policies  profound, 

Burdens  each  breast,  and  doctrines  pure  and  sound, 

Consult  a  future  people's  liberties, 

Without  the  pomp  of  courtly  vanities. 

Their  theme  the  building  of  a  colony, 

Their  views  as  various  as  their  interests  be, 

The  past  is  traversed  with  a  sober  gaze, 

Truths  gathered  from  experience's  ways, 

And  probabilities  dexterously  thrown 

In  Reason's  scales,  to  balance  up  or  down. 

Suggestions  follow;  till  each  one  in  turn, 

His  neighbor's  leading  views  succeeds  to  learn. 

Discussion  then  proceeds,  orderly,  clear, 

Each  member  striving  simplest  to  appear, 

And  each  assuming  rather  to  be  taught, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  23, 

Than  teach  the  other,  e'en  if  teach  he  ought. 
If  different  grounds  their  judgments  mild  divide, 
Each  yields  his  own  to  take  the  other's  side ; 
Or,  if  one  holds  a  point  at  one's  expense, 
He  argues  only  in  his  point's  defense, 
And  not  against  the  others,  shows  how  plain 
His  views  are  to  discover  his  friend's  gain. 
Thus  order  o'er  the  council  all  prevails, 
And  harshness  ne'er  reflection's  ear  assails. 
So  when  some  peaceful  stream  pursues  its  course 
Down  moaning  falls  and  rapids  gurgling  hoarse, 
Each  separate  object  finds  a  tongue  distinct, 
But  all  together  blend,  and  each  in  one's  extinct. 

These  names  were  chief  in  council:     'Squire  Grimes, 

A  stern  Lycurgus  of  the  backwoods  times, 

And  pious  parson  Deems,  of  honored  name, 

And  mild  Sir  Maxey  of  lineal  fame. 

A  man  of  little  more  than  medium  size 

Was  he,  with  soft  brown  hair  and  hazel  eyes, 

A  light  gray  even  beard,  an  open  face, 

An  easy  carriage,  and  a  happy  trace 

Of  deep  reflection  in  his  general  mien, 

That  e'en  by  dull  observers  might  be  seen. 

Unlike  the  Caesar  of  a  forest  shed, 

To  daring  deeds,  and  frontier  perils  bred, 

So  sensitive  his  elevated  mind, 


24  NOT  A  MAN, 

For  combat  and  disaster  too  refined, 

At  bloody  sights  a  horror  seized  his  breath, 

And  fears  swum  thro'  his  veins  at  thought  of  death. 

And  such  is  man,  to  different  fortunes  born; 

When  different  schools  his  early  life  adorn, 

A  hero  dwindles  to  a  merest  lout 

When  nothing  calls  the  latent  hero  out. 

The  name  of  Gabriel  Grimes,  whene'er  one  spoke, 

The  thought  of  law  immediately  awoke. 

His  mien  meant  law,  his  voice  and  his  attire, — 

In  truth  the  very  man  seemed  born  a  'Squire. 

Not  tall  was  he  but  round,  and  fat  and  tan, 

And  twice  as  thick  as  any  other  man. 

Reserved,  yet  free,  incautious,  yet  alert, 

He  suffered  ne'er  his  character  a  hurt 

By  weightless  talk.     When  others  laughed  he'd  frown, 

When  others  frowned  he'd  laugh,  and  so  renown, 

E'en  as  the  jackal  hunts  the  lion  down, 

Ran  after  him  all  frothy  mouthed ;  and  praise 

Sounded  her  horn  at  his  peculiar  ways. 

'Twas  granted  all  the  depths  of  law  he  knew, 

For  what  he  did  know,  others  ne'er  saw  thro'. 

His  strength  lay  not  in  doing  mighty  things, 

But  giving  mighty  inferences  wings, 

And  thus  it  is  with  many  great  of  earth, 

Not  what  they  are,  but  what  we  think  them  worth. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  25 

But  David  Deems,  his  opposite  in  all, 

Was  pleasant,  candid,  unassuming,  tall. 

A  cloud  of  fleecy  locks  hung  peacefully 

About  his  neck,  according  happily 

With  his  broad  look  of  open  charity, 

And  ever  in  his  careful  placid  face 

The  sweet  light  shone  of  vital  inward  grace, 

Like  dawnings  of  a  better  world — no  glare 

Of  hot  ambitions  e'er  ascending  there, 

Nor  earth's  polluting  fires.     His  was  no  mien 

Of  sanctity  affected,  while  between 

His  precepts  and  his  practice,  regions  lay 

Untraversed  in  his  life ;  but  as  the  day, 

The  cloudless  lustre  of  his  zealous  soul 

Beamed  solid  forth,  and  held  in  mute  control, 

Or  stirred  with  song-cheer  all  within  his  reach. 

He  practiced  how  to  live  as  well  as  preach, 

And  when  he  prayed,  "  Our  debtors  be  forgiven," 

His  soul  and  mind  and  strength  conversed  with  Heaven, 

Denouncing  sin,  the  rebel,  trembling  heard, 

And  breathless  hung  upon  his  lightest  word; 

Describing  bliss,  wretchedness  raised  her  eyes, 

And  with  his  lifted  hand  assayed  to  rise, 

To  spurn  cold  earth  and  dwell  beyond  the  skies. 

But  when  with  pity  streaming  down  his  cheek, 

The  pierced  bleeding  Lamb  of  God,  so  meek 

He  pointed  to,  loud  sobs  responsive  told 


26  NOT    A  MAN, 

What  sway  o'er  hearts  a  godly  man  may  hold. 
Ah,  God !  for  more  such  in  these  turbid  days, 
Who  preach  to  save  souls,  not  to  win  mere  praise, 
Who  walk  with  men  to  lead  them  out  of  vice, 
And  cause  them  to  secure  the  "  pearl  of  price." 

'Twas  then  fair  Saville  that  thy  just  renown 

Was  trumpeted  in  all  the  pride  of  town. 

For  all  the  hunting  stations  far  and  near, 

Thou  wast  a  depot  to  all  hunters  dear. 

The  tide  of  immigration  drifting  e'er, 

Far  on  thy  desert  shores,  some  pioneer; 

Soon  far  around,  in  distant  wilds  unknown, 

Rude  lodges  from  adventurer's  hands  were  strewn, 

And  Husbandry  went  forth  with  sturdy  hand, 

To  clear  the  waste  and  dress  a  prosperous  land. 

The  voice  of  cleavers  in  yon  valleys  wide, 

Were  heard  from  breaking  morn  till  eventide; 

Loud  rang  their  sudden  axes  blow  on  blow, 

Deep  thro'  the  waste  re-echoed  from  below, 

Great  trees  came-.crashing  with  a  thundering  sound, 

Heaved  from  their  stumps,  and  groaned   along  the  ground. 

Lo  !  in  the  mountains  where  yon  wild  cascade 
Leaps  thro'  the  sun  and  trembles  in  the  shade, 
Or  sings  in  the  sad  ear  of  loneliness ; 
Where  noteless  birds  come  in  the  drowsiness 
Of  pulseless  Summer's  unremitting  heat, 
Where  o'er  the  stream  the  forest  branches  meet, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  2  7 

Where  rocks  oppose  the  climber's  sterile  way — 
And  gorges  yawn  beneath  in  rugged  gray, 
High  in  the  seat  of  Ancient  Solitude, 
The  border  woodsman  rears  his  cabin  rude. 
Equipped  with  rifle,  axe,  and  fathful  dogs, 
Here  dwells  the  sovereign  of  a  hut  of  logs ; 
By  one  attended  of  the  fearless  fair, 
A  consort  in  the  wilds  well  worth  his  care. 

By  day  the  husband  ventures  forth  for  food, 
Far  from  his  lodge,  within  some  friendly  wood ; 
At  eve  returning  to  that  constant  one, 
Who  dared  to  bide  his  coming  all  alone. 
Then  when  the  twilight  spreads  her  mantle  pale 
O'er  wood  and  hill,  and  darkens  in  the  vale, 
His  axe,  and  ready  loaded  gun  near  by, 
His  watchful  mastiffs  snugly  napping  nigh, 
The  window  latched,  and  stoutly  barred  the  door, 
The  day's  adventures  are  recounted  o'er. 
The  bear  is  now  pursued  over  fallen  logs, 
Opposed  by  these,  and  pressed  by  eager  dogs, 
The  herd's  seen  pouring  thro'  the  startled  dell, 
The  fleet  stag's  shot  and  hung  up  where  he  fell. 
Thus  on,  the  current  of  narration  flows, 
Deeper  and  deeper  wearing  as  it  goes, 
Till  heavy  slumber  settles  on  their  eyes  ; 
Converse  moves  sluggish,  thoughts  slower  arise, 


28  NOT    A    MAN, 

And  faint  and  fainter  flickering,  sink  the  rays, 
That  wander  from  the  fagot's  dying  blaze, 
Till  embers  pale  surviving — nothing  more, 
Light  them  to  rest  to  dream  their  ehattings  o'er. 

Look  where  yon  hunters  two  or  three  or  more, 

The  solitary  wilds  to  westward  now  explore. 

Thro'  mountain  paths,  by  lakes  and  streams  they  roam, 

The  woods  their  dwelling-place,  the  world  their  home ! 

In  beast  skins  clad,  dark  jungles  wind  they  thro', 

With  eager  strides  their  desert  way  pursue, 

And  with  wild  pleasure  gaze  on  every  prospect  new. 

At  times  hopelessly  lost  these  wandered  long, 

The  hostile  tribes  of  savages  among. 

By  day  their  only  show  of  safety 

Their  excellence  in  sylvan  strategy. 

The  wild  bird's  song  seemed  as  a  mournful  tale, 

And  e'en  a  twig's  fall  turned  their  faces  pale; 

And  every  little  throat  did  omens  bear, 

That  shocked  their  senses  with  a  seige  of  fear, 

Till  restless  hunger  whetted  valor  keen, 

And  dared  the  perils  of  the  dismal  scene. 

When  thro'  the  darkling  bosom  of  the  dell 

The  footsteps  of  the  cautious  ranger  fell 

In  measured  silence  on  the  Indian  trail, 

And  fierce  alarm  was  tongued  by  every  gale; 

When  streamed  the  burning  wigwam's  lurid  light 

Against  the  forest  walls  of  troubled  night, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  29 

And  quick-eyed  dragoons  threaded  every  pass, 
O'er  mountain  rocks,  and  in  the  deep  morass, 
Then  cougar-footed  strategy  slunk  in 
Before  the  lion  tread  of  Discipline. 

For  these,  fair  Saville,  these  frontiersmen  bold; 
Whose  praise  in  song  or  story  ne'er  was  told, 
For  these,  thou  wast  a  haven  where  all  turned, 
And  where  for  all  a  genial  hearth  e'er  burned. 
When  fugitives  to  this  free  home  of  ours, 
Sought  liberty  beneath  thy  Western  bowers; 
From  shores  whence  bigotry,  with  flaming  hand, 
Expelled  poor  conscience  naked  from  the  land, 

Pale  wanderers  flocked  to  thee  in  many  a  trembling  band. 

• 

From  torpid  Norway's  habitations  drear, 
Where  Summer  smiles  to  soothe  the  frigid  year 
In  vain,  and  boisterous,  railing  torrents  moan 
The  bitter  discord  of  their  cheerless  zone, 
And  wintry  blasts  o'er  naked  landscapes  shriek, 
While  sparse  fed  herds  migrate  from  peak  to  peak 
In  dismal  groups,  to  browse  the  thawing  slope, 
Or  huddle  in  the  drowsy  mountain  cope; 
From  fair  Italia's  hills  of  evergreen, 
O'er-canopied  in  stillest  blue  serene, 
From  fields  where  Summer  plants  her  fragrant  train 
Beside  the  lucent  streamlets  of  the  plain; 
From  old  determined  Britian  ;  morose  Wales — 


30  NOT   A    MAN, 

Where  life's  as  stately  as  a  ship  with  sails — 

From  Scotia's  genial  bourne  of  soul  and  song, 

Where  poverty,  though  simple,  spurns  the  wrong, 

Where  love  and  labor  meet  fraternally ; 

Fair  land  of  Burns  and  wand' ring  minstrelsy ; 

From  Germany's  wide  realms  of  smoke  and  beer, 

Where  dreamy  metaphysics  sits  austere; 

From  over-flowing,  ever-bowing  France, 

The  home  of  fashions,  fopperies  and  dance ; 

From  sacred  Judah,  and  beyond  the  Nile, 

And  from  priest-ridden  Erin's  suppliant  isle, 

Escaping  bands  from  Famine,  Tyranny 

And  Ignorance,  fled  here  for  liberty. 

A  home  for  empty  indigence  was  here; 

The  broken  spendthrift  found  a  friendly  sphere, 

The  hopeless  suiter  came  in  all  his  throes, 

To  sport  away  the  burdens  of  his  woes ; 

Here  wealth  and  romance  found  a  fit  abode, 

And  hand-in-hand  with  fame  and  fancy  strode ; 

Ambition,  in  his  sanguinest  career, 

Found  a  theatre  for  his  conquests  here ; 

And  grave  philanthropy,  advising  stood, 

Disposed  to  do  the  unborn  future  good; 

And  here  apostles  of  the  hidden  life 

Implored  kind  Heaven  to  hold  the  winds  of  strife, 

Pronounced  swift  judgment  on  transgression's  ways, 

Encouraged  virtue,  recommended  praise, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  3! 

Enlivened  hope,  taught  faith  to  patient  be, 
Cheered  manly  toil  and  lauded  charity. 

With  strongest  cords  of  mutual  interest  bound, 
All  hands  together  were  employed  found. 
Engaged  to  arm  against  a  common  foe , 
The  strength  of  unity  they  learned  to  know; 
And  what  convenience  Art  had  them  denied, 
United,  willing  hands  full  well  supplied. 
They  reared  their  cabins,  built  their  forest  forts 
Together,  hunted,  fished  and  held  their  sports. 
The  sick  they  joined  to  nurse  with  sleepless  care, 
To  soothe  the  suffering,  knew  no  pains  to  spare, 
And  when  from  earth  the  patient  spirit  fled, 
They  joined  their  mournful  tributes  to  the  dead. 
Thus  plenty  flourished  on  the  lap  of  ease, 
And  even  danger's  self  was  made  to  please. 
Bold  industry  at  hardships  learned  to  smile, 
Uproot  vast  wants  and  hew  down  woods  of  toil. 
So  when  the  forest  matron  crowned  her  board 
With  health  and  sustenance  from  her  good  hoard, 
The  unknown  wanderer  had  a  welcome  there, 
And  indolence  was  e'en  allowed  a  chair. 
Lo  !  where  yon  woodsman  skirts  the  neighboring  weald, 
And  nears  his  smoking  cot  behind  the  field. 
His  step  aweary  quickens  at  eace  pace, 
And  satisfaction  lightens  his  tired  face 
As  home  he  views;  Home !  isle  in  time's  rough  sea, 


32  NOT   A    MAN, 

Where  rests  the  voyager  serene  and  free 

From  hollow,  howling  sorrows,  that  surround 

His  rock,  and  shake  life's  groaning  depths  profound- 

Where  winds  repose,  in  long  unruffled  peace, — 

Dear  isle !  where  love's  bright  shine  doth  never  cease- 

And  where  no  sooner  doth  the  bloomy  train, 

Their  sweetness  drop,  than  blooms  revive  again. 

Lo,  now  the  evening  star  in  grandeur  still 

Ascends  yon  upland  wood  and  sheep  cote  hill, 

Like  some  pale  maiden  at  the  trysting  late, 

Hard  thro'  the  twilight  peering  o'er  the  gate  ; 

The  loud  cur  at  the  hollow  nightfall  bays, 

And  whispers  flutter  round  the  bright  hearth's  blaze, 

Then  nearer  draws  the  rustic  to  his  seat, 

His  warming  heart  outstrips  his  hasting  feet ; 

All  day  his  manly  arms  to  labor  bared, 

Have  wrought  the  task,  returning  want  prepared. 

Blest  be  the  man,  who  void  of  all  pretense, 

Repays  in  ample  sweat  kind  Providence, 

For  all  His  goods,  and  great  beneficence  ! 

And  blest  the  consort  of  his  lusty  cares, 

Who  seeks  his  pleasures  and  his  labor  shares. 

Behold  the  pilgrim  leaning  at  their  door, 

Water  he  begs  and  shelter — nothing  more ; 

The  frowning  wealth  of  some  far  distant  land, 

Has  driven  him  to  leave  with  empty  hand. 

See  how  the  wond'ring  little  ones  apprise 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  33 

Their  busy  mother  with  their  sparkling  eyes. 
She  to  the  stranger  bows,  extends  a  chair, 
And  chides  her  bright-eyed  cherubs  if  they  stare. 
Hark  !  now  the  cotter's  well-known  steps  draw  near, 
And  patter  faster  as  the  stile  they  clear. 
Soon  in  the  door  appears  his  open  face, 
A  flock  of  kisses  fly  to  his  embrace ; 
The  smaller,  raised  upon  his  manly  breast, 
Chirp  out,  and  crow,  and  carrol  at  the  rest. 
And  the  kind  housewife,  hasty  to  obey 
A  tender  conscience,  happy  seems  as  they. 
Her  eyes  upon  the  hoary  stranger  bent, 
Speak  her  desire,  and  ask  her  lord's  consent. 
All  signs  and  looks  unpleasant  are  repressed, 
And  ample  supper  set  before  their  guest; 
Who,  having  vanquished  potent  hunger  quite, 
Is  kindly  pressed  upon  to  stay  all  night ! 
Blest  be  the  man  !  his  hands  arrest  his  wants, 
His  charity  is  great,  but  never  vaunts. 
He  now  to  quiet  night's  embrace  repairs, 
And  sleeps  away  his  weariness  and  cares. 
Sweet  be  the  visions  of  his  manly  breast, 
Nor   by  remorseful   dreams  of  wealth,   nor   banished  joys 
opprest. 

These  were  the  mighty  days  of  little  things, 

Ere  soaring  vanity  had  yet  her  wings. 

Her  patron  wealth  was  then  but  poorly  known, 


34  NOT  A  MAN, 

For  gain  was  satisfied  with  but  his  own. 

Then  aspirations  of  the  noblest  kind, 

Dear  humble  comfort  to  her  hights  confined. 

These  were  the  good  old  times  of  simple  worth, 

When  love  aud  reverence  met  at  every  hearth ; 

When  strong  toil  stretched  beneath  green  plenty's  tree, 

And  worshipped  home's  best  god  dear  Industry. 

Then  gaunt-armed  indiscretion,  pale  and  sore, 

Groaning  beneath  disease's  dreaded  sting 

Through  sleepless  hours,  was  never  known.     The  king 

Most  terrible  of  all  the  hordes  of  bale, 

Intemp'rance,  did  not  then  the  peace  assail 

Of  hopeful  hearts,  breathing  out  crime  and  hate, 

And  houseless  want  and  hearths  all  desolate. 

Then  blushing  beauty's  cheek  of  tender  hues, 

Showed  not  excessive  drink  and  what  ensues. 

Ah !  fatal  days  of  wantonness  and  wine, 

In  which  now  youthful  wealth  assays  to  shine, 

Deriding  with  the  jeers  of  native  glee, 

The  homespun  customs  of  their  ancestry ! 

Regarding  lights  which  made  our  land  sublime, 

As  smouldering  embers  on  the  hearth  of  time. 

In  wilds  remote  from  fame's  resounding  horn, 

Where  courts  were  never  dreamed  of,  kings  were  born, 

Or  minds  that  might  have  worn  star-gemmed  renown,        » 

And  added  lustre  to  a  James'  crown 

With  all  the  sovereign  claims  of  Royalty, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  35 

Wisdom,  valor,  and  sterling  honesty. 

The  way  from  office  then  was  hedged  by  fines, 

The  way  to  office  now  by  party  lines. 

Oh,  God !  for  a  return  to  simple  ways, 

Such  as  crowned  Saville  in  her  valiant  days, 

Ere  yet  the  pluming  warrior's  barb'rous  knife 

Cut  down  the  flower  on  the  lap  of  life ! 

But,  Saville,  pause !  for  God's  sake  pause !  I  beg  ! 

For  thy  fair  bosom  warms  a  viper's  egg. 

The  hatching  ruin  will  thy  young  life  sting, 

And  pour  a  deadly  poison  thro'  thy  .nature's  spring. 

Thou  hold'st  one  slave  !  Of  barbarisms  old 

An  evil  seed  now  in  thy  life  takes  hold. 

Prosperity's  big  rain  to  cheer  thee  falls, 

And  plenty  overhangs  thy  garden  walls ; 

Soft  blooming  gladness  in  thy  hedges  peep, 

And  green  delight  doth  at  thy  waysides  creep, 

Contentment  murmurs  in  thy  valleys  low, 

And  health's  rejoicing  streams  from  fruitful  hillsides  flow; 

But  Justice  n'er  can  say,  "  peace  be  in  thee," 

While  one  beneath  thy  grinding  heel  pants  to  be  free. 

Ah  !  can'st  thou  hold  the  life  of  one  in  chains, 

With  eighty-five  per  cent,  of  Saxon  in  his  veins  ? 

Oh,  Saville,  look  at  what  a  crime  thy  nature  stains ! 

Thy  Rodney,  see,  how  noble  he  appears, 
Just  on  the  summit  of  his  tender  years ! 


36  NOT  A  MAN, 

His  Summers  number  scarce  a  single  score, 

And  yet  his  manly  face  seems  marked  by  more. 

When  pity  calls,  his  brawny  arm  assumes 

A  woman's  softness,  and  as  light  becomes. 

But  when  the  right  enlists  him  to  oppose, 

On  whate'er  grounds,  whatever  of  her  foes, 

His  face  as  gentle  as  a  sleeping  child's, 

Would  dare  the  fury  of  the  roaring  wilds; 

His  nerves  put  on  their  fearless  strength,  and  steeled 

By  valor  stern,  the  knife  or  rifle  wield. 

Erect  in  air  he  stands  full  six-feet,  three, 

Broad  shouldered,  strong,  a  goodly  man  is  he. 

A  lover  of  fair  women,  and  as  blind 

To  her  weaknesses  as  Egyptian  night, 

A  fondler  with  soft  childhood,  and  as  kind 

To  its  mistakes,  as  if  mistakes  were  right; 

Skilled  in  the  feats  that  backwoods  life  adorn, 

Although  a  stranger  to  the  backwoods  born, 

The  shelly  clamor  of  the  Autumn  trees, 

Or  howl  of  beasts,  or  savages  alike  can  please. 

And  he  a  slave  ?     Ah,  Saville,  can  it  be 

That  such  a  noble  heart  can  not  beat  free  ! 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  37 


THE  OLD  SAC  VILLAGE. 

Ye  who  read  in  musty  volumes 
Pages  worn  of  Backwoods  Times, 
Of  the  red  man  and  the  white  man, 
In  the  thrilling  days  of  danger, 
In  the  gall  of  border  troubles, 
In  the  wastes  of  deadly  revenge, 
And  the  ruffian  hands  of  torture  ; 
And  of  long  and  fierce  death  grapples, 
With  the  bloody  hands  of  combat, 
On  the  yawning  edge  of  famine ; 
Of  adventure's  rustling  footsteps, 
When  the  knees  of  stoutest  valor 
Smote  together  as  they  paused,  where 
Lynx-eyed  strategy  lay  crouching, 
On  the  bosom  of  still  ambush, 
Ready  from  his  hands  to  let  loose 
A  loud  leash  of  swift  cruelties  \ 
Ye  who  read  these  musty  volumes, 
Till  a  strange  sensation  thrills  you, 
As  of  Indians  skulking  near  you, 
Lay  aside  your  volume  lightly, 
Hear  me  sing  of  Nanawawa. 

Ye  who  pore  for  weary  hours, 
In  the  deep  wild  nooks  of  legend, 


38  NOT  A  MAN, 

In  the  forest-nooks  of  legend, 
Gath'ring  up  these  strange  old  relics, 
For  your  idle  thoughts  to  play  with ; 
Such  as  wigwams  rude,  and  war  posts, 
Belts  of  wampum,  bows  and  arrows, 
Scalping-knives,  and  rough  stone  hatchets, 
Peace  pipes  and  great  council  fires, 
Forest  senates,  and  wise  treaties, 
Forest  seers  and  superstitions, 
And  inconstancy  and  cunning, 
In  the  savage  world  of  promise ; 
Ye  who  pore  for  weary  hours 
In  these  pathless  nooks  of  legend, 
Wake,  and  hear  of  Nanawawa. 

Ye  who  wander  long  delighted, 
In  the  distant  realms  of  romance, 
On  the  mountain  hights  of  romance, 
And  in  woody  depths  of  romance, 
Getting  lost  in  shady  windings, 
Looking  not  to  find  your  way  out, 
But  a  wood  to  wander  off  in, 
And  a  nook  to  lose  yourselves  in  ; 
With  majestic  trees  around  you, 
Clasping  in  their  anns  of  grandeur, 
Densest  depths  of  sleeping  silence, 
Clear,  deep,  still  lakes,  on  whose  margins 
Peaceful  herds  feed,  dreams  the  heron, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  39 

On  whose  bosoms  swift  and  light  glide 

Birch  canoes,  arrowy  darting, 

Like  soft  shadows,  smooth  and  soundless; 

Floating  thro'  unbroken  stillness, 

Save  the  distant  fret  of  oar-locks, 

And  the  pebbly  speech  of  bright  waves; 

Ye  who  seek  these  depths  of  romance, 

Where  the  noon-beam  parts  the  fore  locks 

Of  the  forest  looking  shyly, 

Where  a  thousand  wind-swung  branches, 

Wild  songs  pour  in  Solitude's  ear, 

And  the  heart  of  meditation 

Slowly  beats  and  warms  in  beating ; 

Pause,  and  hear  of  Nanawawa. 

Ye  who  shut  up  in  warm  houses, 
Late  on  sombre  Winter  evenings, 
Lulled  by  pleasant  roaring  grate  fires, 
And  the  cozy  flap  of  curtains, 
And  the  chirp  of  vacant  childhood, 
And  the  cheery  streams  of  gaslight 
Meekly  stealing,  that  pause,  bashful, 
On  the  plushy  lap  of  softness ; 
Ye  who  thus  shut  up  in  houses, 
Dream  of  early  life  and  hardships, 
Shut  in  humble  frontier  cabins, 
Far  out  on  the  unknown  borders ; 
Dream  of  weariness  o'ercoming 


40  NOT  A  MAN, 

The  lost  traveler  on  his  journey 

Overtaken  by  the  snow-storm ; 

Lone  at  night  and  his  path  dimming, 

Sinking  down  to  sleep  his  death  sleep  ; 

Chilly  leagues  from  any  dwelling, 

And  while  loneliness  bewails  him, 

Through  the  drear  woods  shrieks  the  gray  blast, 

Shrieks  the  eager  flying  North  blast, 

As  a  hungry  eagle  shrieketh ; 

Ye  who  shut  up  thus  in  houses, 

Dream  of  these  fell  border  hardships ; 

Hear  me  sing  of  Nanawawa, 

Ah  !  ye  shall  behold  a  beauty  ! 

On  the  lap  of  an  old  forest, 

In  the  wigwam  of  her  fathers, 

By  the  cascades  of  her  childhood 

Ye  shall  see  a  sylvan  maiden, 

Meek  as  April's  first  fresh  rose  is, 

Sweet  as  blushing  light  e'er  looked  on, 

Brilliant  as  a  melting  dewdrop, 

But  in  love  pensively  youthful. 

In  the  days  that  long  ere  these  times, 
Went  their  way  with  loud  importance, 
On  the  thrilling  lips  of  warfare, 
And  the  tongue  of  backwoods  valor, 
Told  to  many  generations; 
There  was  a  rude  Indian  village, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  41 

Far  within  a  glen  sequestered, 

In  the  basin  of  a  clear  brook, 

Near  the  waters  of  the  Wabash, 

In  the  Mississippi  valley. 

In  this  ancient  birch  bark  village, 

With  his  daughter,  Nanawawa, 

Dwelt  the  chief  of  all  the  Sac  tribes, 

Old  and  austere  Pashepaho, 

Powerful  and  warlike  Stabber. 

On  a  hill,  the  Stabber's  tent  stood 

High  above  the  other  lodges, 

And  the  goodliest  among  them. 

Once  upon  the  moon  of  bright  nights, 

On  a  day  in  budding  April, 

At  his  tent  door  sat  the  Stabber, 

With  his  chin  leaned  on  his  hands,  sat 

Knitting  thoughts  above  his  sage  brow, 

And  pursuing  speculations, 

Through  the  sober  depths  of  study. 

"  What  a  brilliant  sun-set,"  said  he, 

As  the  world  of  quiet  West  woods 

Slowly  reddened  into  amber, 

And  the  sunset-spangled  clouds  threw 

Up  their  long  arms  tipped  with  fire, 

And  sank  down  in  sleepy  glory, 

In  a  deep  still  sea  of  glory. 

"  Sing  a  camp  song,  Nanawawa," 


42  NOT   A   MAN, 

"  I  will  help  you  sing  it  over." 
Said  he,  turning  to  his  daughter. 
"On  the  morrow  is  the  full  moon, 
And  the  great  feast  of  the  Sac  tribes, 
When  the  Chiefs  of  all  the  nations 
Will  come  in  to  see  the  Stabber 
And  report  upon  the  country. 
They  will  tell  me  of  their  huntings, 
And  of  fishings  in  their  clear  streams, 
Of  their  pleasant  sugar  makings, 
And  of  fields  of  green  maize  growing ; 
They  will  tell  of  wild  adventures 
With  the  bear  and  with  the  bison, 
And  will  tell  the  great  traditions 
Of  their  tribes  and  of  their  totems . 
Goodly  presents  they  will  bring  me, 
Venison  to  make  the  feast  with, 
Bear  skins  to  adorn  my  tent  with, 
Paints  to  make  my  old  age  youthful, 
Beads  to  brighten  favor's  dull  eyes, 
Wampum  to  revive  old  friendships, 
And  great  words  to  move  the  heart  with. 

"Sing  a  camp  song,  Nanawawa, 
Sing  until  the  time  of  sleep  comes, 
I  will  join  and  help  you  sing  it." 
Nanawawa  sang  a  camp  song, 
And  the  Stabber  joined  the  singing, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  43 

Till  asleep  they  sat  and  sang  yet, 

Till  they  went  to  sleep  a  singing. 

Morning  came,  ancl  as  the  hours 

Went  their  way,  they  brought  crowds  with  them, 

Of  the  distant  tribes  and  totems. 

Noon  approached,  and  saw  the  great  feast, 

In  its  highest  wild  demeanor, 

In  the  savage  hights  of  ardor. 

Eating,  drinking,  gaming,  dancing, 

Mingled  in  a  ceaseless  whirling 

To  the  sound  of  forest  music. 

Evening  came,  and  as  the  feast  sank 

To  repose,  as  sinks  the  warrior 

On  his  shield,  of  fields  aweary 

And  the  long  parade  of  armies, 

To  the  tent  door  of  the  Stabber, 

Chieftains  came  and  stood  in  silence. 

Pashepaho  in  his  tent  floor, 

On  his  bear  skins  sat  a  smoking. 

Not  a  word  said  he  to  any, 

But  a  seat  he  motioned  them  to, 

And  went  dryly  on  a  smoking 

As  they  settled  close  around  him. 

Young  men,  chiefs  of  the  Ojibways, 
The  Miamis,  and  Dacotahs, 
And  the  mighty  Sacs  and  Foxes, 
Laid  their  presents  rare  and  costly, 


44  NOT  A  MAN, 

At  the  Stabber's  feet ;  and  seated 
On  their  armor,  in  great  phrases 
Of  their  forest  tongues,  made  speeches. 
On  her  tent  floor,  Nanawawa 
Looking  not  upon  the  young  men, 
Heard  their  sounding  words  of  valor. 
Tho'  the  eyes  of  great  chiefs  sought  her, 
She  would  starve  their  eager  glances, 
Turning  from  them  on  the  tent  floor. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  45 


Pashepaho's  Speech  to  the  Young  Men, 

Pashepaho  heard  the  young  men 
Till  their  lofty  words  had  ended, 
And  in  accents  stern,  thus  answered : 
"  For  your  presents,  I  am  thankful. 
By  your  speeches  I'm  encouraged. 
Peace  now  lighteth  all  the  Nations 
As  a  noon  sun  lights  the  prairies. 
Time  once  was  when  peace  was  broken 
Up  in  all  our  Western  borders. 
Horsed  on  fire,  bloody  battle 
Rode  throughout  our  ancient  forests. 
From  his  home  within  the  sunrise, 
From  his  land  of  bells  and  steeples, 
From  the  regions  of  the  East  wind, 
The  hoar  dwelling  place  of  Wabun, 
Then  Spake  the  Great  Father  to  us, 
To  his  red  tribes  spake  in  loud  tones 
As 'of  thunder  in  the  forests. 
"  Now  be  peaceable,  my  children, 
Dwell  in  friendship's  tents  together, 
You,  my  red  sons  and  my  white  sons." 
Then  he  took  his  great  war  hatchet, 
That  could  strike  with  blows  of  thunder, 


46  NOT   A   MAN, 

And  into  the  mountains  wandered, 
Went  forth  in  the  deepest  valleys, 
And  at  one  blow  hewed  a  pine  down, 
Fell  a  great  pine  of  the  valleys, 
That  looked  upward  into  Heaven, 
With  the  East  winds  in  his  left  hand, 
And  the  West  winds  in  his  right  hand, 
And  the  noon-beams  in  his  forelocks ; 
Took  this  old  pine  of  the  valleys, 
And  to  make  a  war-post,  reared  it. 
Then  he  spake  again,  in  this  wise: 
"Lo  !  the  war-post  now  ascendeth! 
See  the  war-post  of  the  nations, 
Now  the  Great  Spirit  beholds  it ; 
See  it  pointing  into  Heaven 
Like  the  finger  of  a  giant ! 
Bury  now  your  hatchets  neath  it, 
And  be  peaceable  my  children, 
Dwell  in  friendship's  tents  together." 
Then  the  sky  above  the  war-post, 
Grew  as  clear  as  any  crystal,  . 
And  the  dreamy  air  was  softened, 
And  the  dazing  blue  seemed  higher, 
And  the  far  off  hills  seemed  farther, 
And  all  sounds  were  low  and  solemn. 
Then  the  red  sons  and  the  white  sons, 
Neath  the  war-post  sat  together. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  47 

When  the  red  sons  spake  in  this  wise : 

"  Raise  your  eyes  and  look  now,  brothers, 

See  it  now  is  Indian  Summer. 

Lo !  the  sky  is  all  serene  now, 

And  the  hills  are  all  a  sleeping, 

How  the  brown  woods  now  are  yawning? 

Now  the  slow  streams  sing  in  whispers. 

And  the  South  wind  passeth  softly 

In  her  moccasins  of  damp  moss. 

Lo  !  this  now  is  Indian  Summer, 

And  the  time  to  go  a  hunting. 

We  will  leave  you  now,  and  hasten 

To  the  mountains  for  a  bear  hunt. 

Our  light  canoes  are  waiting 

By  the  waters.     Brothers,  farewell. 

Then  spake  the  Great  Father  to  us, 

As  we  stood  beside  the  waters, 

By  the  moorings  ot  our  canoes, 

And  shook  hands  with  all  our  brothers. 

"  Thus  your  hunting  grounds,  my  red  sons, 

.Shall  extend;  my  white  sons  know  them. 

Prom  Kaskaskia  to  Cahokia, 

From  St.  Vincennes  to  St.  Louis, 

Up  the  Wabash,  Illinois, 

The  Wisconsin,  and  Great  Water, 

To  the  regions  of  the  North  wind, 

Where  the  bold  St.  Lawrence  spreadeth 


48  NOT  A    MAN, 

Out  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand; 

Where  the  dun  moose  snuffs  the  lake  fog, 

Snuffs  the  cold  breath  of  the  North  Lakes, 

And  the  slow  bear  baffles  Winter, 

In  his  sullen  reign  of  deep  snows ; 

Where  the  son  of  Giant  waters 

Rocks  the  earth  as  in  a  cradle, 

And  sings  lullabys  of  thunder 

In  the  ear  of  old  Forever, 

Till  the  darkness  sighs  and  shudders, 

And  the  white  hills  quake  and  whisper, 

"  Lo,  Niagara  is  waking !" 

From  this  birth-place  of  the  hoar  blasts, 

To  the  wigwam  of  the  South  wind, 

In  the  myriad-voiced  prairies, 

Where  the  wild  goose  sounds  her  pibroch, 

And  the  wild  duck  talks  her  nonsense, 

And  the  heron  shoots  her  slant  flights, 

From  her  dreamings  in  the  long  grass ; 

These  shall  be — then  loud  he  uttered — 

Hunting  grounds  for  you  forever." 

Then  said  Pashepaho,  turning 

From  his  audience,  and  smoking, 

"  Peace  now  lighteth  up  our  forests, 

And  our  wigwams  all  are  cheerful." 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  49 


NANAWAWA'S  SUITORS. 


When  the  Slabber's  speech  had  ended, 
And  his  presents  all  were  gathered, 
And  his  pipe  the  chiefs  had  all  smoked, 
Four  young  chiefs  of  goodly  mein,  came 
Hound  the  princess  of  the  forest, 
And  upon  the  tent  floor  kneeling, 
Made  obesience  to  her  lowly. 
Then  they  rose  and  gave  her  presents, 
•Costly  beads  and  many  colored 
One  presented,  one  a  necklace 
Of  rare  stones,  one  silver  brooches 
For  her  hair,  and  one  gold  wristlets. 
All  then  went  and  sat  in  silence, 
Waiting  for  the  maiden's  answer. 
Pausing,  seemed  the  maid  more  pretty. 
Youthful  seemed  in  indecision. 
At  the  presents  looked  and  suitors, 
Looked  at  one  and  then  the  others. 
Ah !  how  lovely  now  her  soft  eyes 
Shone  as  her  young  hands  grew  doubtful. 
Fairest  daughter  of  the  wigwams, 
Blithest  warbler  of  the  deep  shades, 
Sweetest  flower  that  e'er  shined  there, 
Having  o'er  her  native  sweetness 
Rarest  hues  of  loneliness  shed. 


50  NOT  A    MAN, 

Ah  !  she  was  a  lovely  doubter  ! 
Beads  about  her  perfect  neck  hung, 
Like  the  clusters  of  a  ripe  vine. 
Wristlets  clasped  her  naked  round  arms, 
With  reluctance  seemed  to  clasp  them, 
As  a  lover  clasps  a  lover. 
Undecided,  ah,  how  youthful, 
Ah,  how  rare  was  Nanawawa ! 
Pashepaho  silent  sitting, 
With  a  true  parental  pride,  watched 
His  fair  daughter  thro'  the  pipe  smoke 
That  in  clouds  his  head  environed. 
At  the  door-way  of  the  wigwam, 
Then  a  chief  stood,  a  Dacotah, 
Leading  a  young  captive  with  him, 
A  fair  child  of  some  white  settler. 
In  the  captive's  face,  the  light  shone 
Of  intelligence  and  training. 
He  the  hopes  showed  of  proud  parents. 
Long  his  locks,  and  golden,  floated 
To  his  shoulders,  blue  his  eyes  were, 
And  as  sunbeams  penetrating. 
But  captivity's  cold  buffets 
Pensive  made  him  seem  and  forlorn. 
Then  the  presents  of  the  young  chiefs, 
Nanawawa  threw  back  to  them, 
Rose  and  met  the  young  Dacotah, 


AND  YET  A    MAN.  51 

Took  the  captive  by  the  right  hand, 

And  the  young  chief  by  the  left  hand, 

And  into  the  wigwam  led  them. 

"  Here,"  said  she,  "  This  is  my  present, 

As  the  captive's  hand  she  held  to, 

Give  me  this  lad  for  a  present." 

"I  have  brought  him  for  your  present," 

Sighed  the  hopeful  young  Dacotah. 

Thus  it  was  that  Nanawawa 

Found  a  lover  in  her  wigwam, 

^ 

Found  a  husband  at  her  door-way. 
For  within  her  heart  she  whispered, 
In  her  heart  the  thought  she  uttered, 
"  I  have  found  a  husband  surely." 
But  a  secret  hid  she  kept  it, 
Though  she  to  her  own  heart  told  it, 
Pashepaho  never  knew  it. 
Many  days  in  happiness  dwelt 
Nanawawa  and  the  captive; 
For  the  Stabber  took  the  captive, 
Smeared  his  face  with  many  colors, 
Hung  his  golden  locks  with  brooches, 
Armed  him  with  a  bow  and  arrows, 
And  his  son,  the  White  Loon,  named  him ; 
Nanawawa's  brother  called  him. 
Meanwhile  all  the  village  loved  him, 
Loved  young  Nanawawa's  brother. 


52  NOT  A   MAN, 

In  their  huntings  and  their  fishings, 
All  the  young  men  of  the  village 
Sought  companionship  in  White  Loon. 
For  the  deer  hunt  he  was  ready, 
For  the  bison  chase  and  bear  hunt ; 
And  when  Spring  had  warmed  the  rivers, 
And  their  flow  from  mountains  quickened, 
On  the  bosom  of  the  full  tide, 
His  canoe  was  seen  with  others. 
He  was  called  the  lucky  fisher. 
Thus  it  was  that  in  the  Sac  town, 
White  Loon  grew  to  be  admired. 
And  at  every  tent  door  pausing, 
In  the  morning  or  the  evening, 
Groups  of  cheerful  faces  met  him, 
With  their  dusky  smiles  of  welcome. 
Old  men  talked  of  him  with  wise  looks, 
And  the  young  with  brightened  faces. 
Children  spoke  of  him  in  whispers, 
And  with  little  looks  of  wonder, 
Grouped  behind  him  in  the  tent  doors ; 
For  to  them  he  was  a  prophet. 

o> 

He  could  tell  of  ghosts  and  genii, 
In  the  woods  and  in  the  waters; 
In  the  rolling  Susquehanah, 
And  the  broad  and  rapid  Hudson, 
And  the  blue  and  peaceful  Huron, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  53. 

He  could  tell  of  evil  genii, 

Clasping  hands  upon  the  waters, 

And  to  elfin  music  dancing 

On  the  clear  and  moonlit  waters. 

Thus  it  was  he  told  the  children 

Of  a  proud  and  faithless  lover, 

And  the  genii  of  the  waters, 

On  the  dark  shores  of  Lake  Huron. 

"  In  a  land  of  lakes  and  great  woods, 

In  a  green  and  distant  country, 

On  the  high  cliffs  of  Lake  Huron, 

High  as  two  pine  trees  together, 

In  a  wigwam  of  great  oak  trees, 

Lived  a  mighty  chief  of  white  men. 

Old  the  man,  and  long  his  beard  was 

As  the  bow  string  of  a  warrior. 

Long  his  hair,  and  thick  and  white  was, 

Like  the  pine's  locks  in  a  snow  storm. 

This  chief  had  a  lovely  daughter. 

Light  was  she,  and  full  of  sunshine, 

And  her  words  were  all  as  cheerful 

As  a  stream  that  glideth  onward. 

And  her  songs  were  all  as  buoyant 

As  the  loud  songs  of  a  cascade. 

In  her  speech  music  of  groves  was, 

In  her  hair  the  gold  of  sunset, 

In  her  cheek  the  blush  of  sunrise, 


54  NOT  A  MAN, 

On  her  brow  the  shade  of  twilight, 

In  her  eyes  the  blue  of  soft  skies; 

And  her  teeth  were  rows  of  pearl  beads. 

This  fair  squaw  a  young  chief  once  loved, 

And  her  hand  in  marriage  promised. 

But  her  heart  was  light  and  wayward, 

And  smiled  on  him,  but  went  from  him, 

Till  his  eyes  were  mooned  in  frenzy, 

And  he  fell  into  Lake  Huron. 

From  the  high  cliffs  that  looked  downward 

From  behind  the  great  oak  wigwam, 

Genii,  dancing  on  the  lake's  breast, 

Saw  him  fall,  and  seized  him  sinking, 

And  with  shouts  of  music,  bore  him 

To  a  land  beneath  the  waters. 

Night  by  .night  then  came  his  lover 

To  the  bluffs  behind  her  wigwam, 

And  long  hours  in  the  moonlight 

Gazed  down  on  the  sleepy  waters. 

Thus  she  thought  once  when  she  went  there : 

"Oh  !  I'm  sorry  !  I  am  sorry ! 

Since  he's  gone ;  Oh,  now  I'm  sorry  ! 

Could  he  hear  me  in  his  dark  grave 

Of  the  frightful  rocking  billows, 

I  would  say  to  him,  forgive  me ! 

Speak,  O  waves,  for  now  your  hoarse  words 

Breaking  on  the  rocks  may  tell  me! 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  55 

Can  he  hear  my  heart  lamenting  ?  " 

Now  the  genii  heard  her  sorrows,  . 

Formed  a  circle  of  enchantment, 

And  upon  the  billows  seated, 

Filled  the  ravished  air  with  sweet  sounds; 

Till  the  fair  squaw,  like  her  lover, 

Fell  among  them,  and  they  seized  her, 

And  away  with  laughter  bore  her, 

In  the  blue  and  silent  Huron. 

Now  within  the  land  of  shadows, 

Far  beneath  the  sad  still  Huron, 

In  the  deep  home  of  the  genii, 

These  two  lovers  are  seen  riding 

E'er  behind  two  harnessed  moonbeams." 

And  of  giants  in  the  mountains, 

White  Loon  also  told  the  children. 

jThus  he  told  them  of  the  giants : 

"In  a  land  of  pines  and  great  rocks, 

In  a  far  off  land  of  mountains, 

In  the  gateway  of  the  sflnrise, 

Where  the  East  wind  shakes  the  door  latch 

On  the  wigwam  of  the  sunrise. 

There  were  giants  in  the  old  days; 

Giants  tall  as  mountain  pine  trees. 

When  it  stormed  upon  the  mountains, 

And  the  woods  were  black  with  terror 

And  their  speech  was  low  and  dismal, 


56  NOT    A  MAN, 

Then,  when  thunders  rolled  and  rumbled 
On  the  stony  streets  of  Heaven; 
In  the  wigwams  of  the  valleys 
Sat  the  stoutest  warriors  trembling, 
And  in  whispers  low  and  fearful 
Muttered,  *  Listen  at  the  giants  ! 
Ugh,  the  giants  now  are  angery, 
And  will  tear  the  very  hills  down  ! ' " 
Thus  it  was  that  White  Loon's  wisdom 
Made  him  to  his  friends  a  prophet. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  57 

NANAWAWA'S  LAKELET. 


Where  the  dark  ash  upward  towereth, 

And  the  maple  drops  her  brown  shade, 

And  the  rough  oak  spreads  his  broad  arms, 

And  the  wild  vine  weaves  her  festoons; 

Where  the  noon  breeze  pants  for  sunlight, 

And  the  sunbeams  wandereth  shyly, 

And  the  night-winds  wrestleth  lightly, 

With  the  lone  leaf  of  the  forest; 

Where  the  moon-beams  creepeth  softly, 

Jn  a  dim  veil  looking  faintly; 

In  this  ancient  grand  high  forest, 

In  the  right  hand  of  Kaskaskia, 

And  the  left  hand  of  Cahokia, 

And  the  regions  of  the  Wabash ; 

Was  the  little  rush  bound  lakelet, 

Of  the  forest- — Nanawawa's. 

Tall  trees  in  the  solemn  old  woods, 

On  the  western  slopes  and  hilltops, 

Threw  their  shadows  in  the  bottoms. 

Parting  ferns  and  water-lilies, 

And  the  rushes,  that  with  wet  lips 

Sipped  the  lakelet's  clear,  cool  waters; 

Nanawawa's  birch  canoe  flashed 

Light  and  noiseless  as  the  shadow 

Of  a  cloud  upon  a  meadow. 

In  this  fleet  canoe  sat  White  Loon, 


58  NOT  A  MAN, 

But  the  oars  held  Nanawawa, 

And  the  boat  plied  with  her  bare  arms, 

And  to  White  Loon  talked  in  whispers. 

Now  a  moon  rose  o'er  the  forest 
Of  the  great  Northwestern  Country, 
And  looked  down  into  the  lakelet 
As  a  maid  looks  in  her  mirror. 
All  the  air  was  in  a  slumber, 
And  the  forests,  in  a  deep  nap, 
Breathed  not  as  soft  light  stole  o'er  them, 
Wrapt  in  fleecy  garb  of  thin  mists, 
Night  had  gently  closed  her  eyelids, 
Clasping  all  the  world  in  silence ; 
Save  the  creek  that  in  the  lake  leapt, 
Coming  from  the  wooded  hillside, 
Saying  strange  things  to  the  clear  moon. 
As  the  boat  flashed  thro'  the  moonlight, 
White  Loon  near  to  Nanawawa 
Drew  his  face,  and  spoke  in  this  wise : 
*' White  Loon  loves  you,  Nanawawa!" 
When  these  words  fell,  both  her  oars  fell, 
And  she  upward  at  the  moon  gazed, 
With  both  hands  dropped  in  the  water. 
As  the  forest  maiden's  soul  swam 
In  her  eyes,  White  Loon  leaned  o'er  her, 
Drew  her  naked  bosom  to  him, 
Drew  her  to  him  close  and  listened; 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  59 

With  his  breathings  half  suspended, 

Listened  to  her  words  of  music 

Dropping  like  a  wasted  shower 

Thro'  the  leafy  depths  of  Autumn ; 

"  Nanawawa  loves  you,  White  Loon, 

"  White  Loon  you  must  build  a  wigwam." 

White  Loon  raised  his  eyes  and  answered : 

"  By  yon  cascade  in  the  mountains, 

High  above  the  village  looking, 

I  will  build  my  great  birch  wigwam, 

Ere  the  wintry  hours  approacheth." 

And  his  heart  with  aspen  lightness 

Turned  toward  a  happy  future. 

Forest-love  brings  forethought  with  it. 

Nuptial  care  dwells  in  the  wildwood ; 

In  the  Indian's  poor  wigwam 

Love's  bright  sunshine  casteth  shadows. 

Thus  it  was  that  White  Loon,  wooing 

On  the  lakelet  of  the  forests, 

In  the  clear  and  placid  moonlight, 

Saw  a  happy  future  rising 

And  its  pleasant  tasks  revealing. 

Thus  it  was  he  built  a  wigwam, 

Dressed  it  carefully  with  bear  skins, 

And  the  door  adorned  with  stag's  horns, 

To  abide  the  bridal  entrance. 

Then  it  was  he  went  a  hunting, 


60  NOT  A  MAN, 

Went  far  off  into  the  mountains, 
Seeking  food  to  meet  the  winter. 
Saying,  as  he  clambered  onward, 
With  the  eager  warrior's  hunted; 
"  I  will  soon  return,  I'm  hoping, 
Let  our  hunting  time  be  short  now." 


DEATH  OP  PASHEPAHCX 

Lo  !  the  old  Sac  village  slumbered 

In  the  basin  of  the  Wabash, 

And  the  doorway  of  the  vallies, 

Like  some  brown  old  matron  napping 

On  the  threshold  of  her  cottage, 

When  her  distaff  lieth  idle. 

All  the  plaintive  vale  was  cooing, 

And  the  hazy  hills  were  piping, 

And  the  mournful  gales  were  flapping 

Thro'  their  somber  realms  of  sere  woods. 

Sang  the  crane  migrating  southward, 

Answered  the  itin'rant  heron 

In  her  dank  and  grassy  rev'rie, 

By  the  blue  and  pensive  waters. 

Then  it  was  that  sate  the  Stabber ; 


AND  YET   A  MAN.  6 1 

In  the  middle  of  his  tent  floor; 
Sate  with  sober  words  and  features, 
Talking  of  the  times  he  once  knew, 
Now  with  the  departed  past  blent, 
Now  deep  in  the  grave  of  years  laid. 
At  his  side  sat  Nanawawa, 
And  her  voice  like  running  waters 
O'er  a  pebbly  bed  descanting, 
Sank  upon  his  ears  with  rapture ; 
With  a  wild  and  lonely  rapture, 
As  she  asked  him  of  the  old  times. 
"  Nanawawa,"  said  he,  trembling, 
"  You  had  better  take  a  husband. 
From  the  great  tribes  of  the  west  plains, 
Take  a  strong  ond  valiant  young  chief, 
For  I  soon  must  go  and  leave  you. 
From  the  wigwam  of  your  mother, 
Sixteen  years  ago  you  followed; 
From  the  lone  spot  where  we  left  her, 
Where  the  mournful  vine  entwines  her, 
Where  the  wild  briar  blooms  above  her, 
Where  the  wild  birds  sing  unto  her ; 
From  that  spot  I  love  to  think  of, 
.Sixteen  years  ago  you  followed 
To  this  wide  and  unknown  country. 
Since  that  time  you've  e'er  been  with  me, 
E'er  been  sunlight  in  my  tent  door, 


62  NOT  A  MAN, 

Ever  been  the  joy  of  old  age; 

But  my  daughter,  Oh !  my  daughter, 

Oh !  my  hind,  my  Nanawawa ! 

I  am  now  upon  a  journey, 

And  you  now  cannot  go  with  me  ! " 

Nanawawa  could  not  answer, 

And  for  tears  saw  not  the  Stabber, 

As  he  leaned  upon  the  tent  floor, 

And  went  on  to  utter  faintly : 

"  What  is  that  I  hear  a  coming  ? 

Don't  I  hear  the  sound  of  footmen 

Coming  from  a  distant  country  ? 

Ah  !  I  hear  the  tread  of  warriors, 

They  are  coming  in  a  hurry ! 

I  behold  great  lands  before  me, 

Now  I  see  green  mountains  rising, 

And  I  see  the  peaceful  wigwams, 

Just  across  the  river  yonder  ! 

Nanawawa,  I  must  leave  you ! 

Come  and  see  me  in  the  morning. 

Oh !  my  daughter,  come  and  see  me!" 

Nanawawa  caught  her  father, 

Stooping  o'er  him,  called  and  called  him, 

Pressed  his  face  against  her  pale  cheek, 

Held  his  hands  and  watched  his  still  lips. 

Then  a  wail  burst  from  the  wigwam ; 

Pashepao  had  ceased  breathing ! 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  63 


SAVILLE  IN  TROUBLE. 

Sing  muse!  of  Saville  and  the  direful  day 
When  beauty  fell,  to  ruthless  hands  a  prey ; 
And  life  a  sacrifice  to  savage  hate, 
Smoked  on  the  alter  of  a  peaceful  State. 
The  pensive  forest  in  his  saddest  wear, 
Leaned  on  the  threshold  of  the  Autumn  sere, 
And  mourned  his  ills  in  parting  Summer's  ear. 
And  waters  leaving  for  the  distant  main 
Sang  their  departure  in  a  muffled  strain. 
The  dove  complaing  at  the  barn  was  heard, 
*  In  wanton  gales  the  naked  orchards  stirred. 
And  scarce  within  the  dreamy  vision's  reach 
The  sheep  cote  elms  flapped  their  rocky  speech. 
In  Saville,  then,  the  border  village  rude, 
Full  plenty's  songs  the  ear  of  labor  wooed, 
And  lulled  him  on  the  lap  of  solitude. 
The  sun  had  swum  high  on  his  blazoned  way, 
Exulting  in  the  power  of  his  sway. 
And  rural  comfort's  well-contented  hum, 
Rejoiced  in  each  household  cherrysome. 
The  milkmaid  gossipped  at  her  busy  churn, 
The  groaning  windlass  coughed  at  each  slow  turnr 
The  distaff  whirred  and  chattered  in  the  door, 
The  swift  brooch  danced  along  the  sounding  floor; 


64  NOT  A  MAN, 

The  matron  scolded,  and  her  hands  applied, 
The  loom  reechoed  and  the  wheel  replied. 
Sir  Maxey  then,  with  horns,  and  hunters  proud, 
Por  chase  assembled  in  a  roaring  crowd. 
The  champing  horses  pawed  the  anxious  ground, 
And  windy  signals  roused  the  kenneled  hound. 
And  as  the  mingling  bands  their  saddles  strode, 
The  wayside  trembled  and  deep  groaned  the  road. 
Three  miles  from  Saville,  in  the  branchy  West, 
The  horsemen  on  their  boist'rous  way  had  pressed, 
When  on  the  wild  marge  of  a  pathless  wood, 
They  reined  their  speed,  and,  list'ning,  eager  stood. 
The  hounds  had  touched  a  trail  upon  the  brink, 
Where  late  an  antlered  stag  had  come  to  drink, 
And  cool,  within  the  windings  of  a  brook, 
That  mused  away  thro'  many  a  forest  nook. 
Soon  lively  baying  o'er  the  distance  broke, 
The  hills  re-echoed  and  the  forest  spoke. 
The  flying  pack  their  goodly  prey  had  sprung, 
St.  Vincennes'  pulseless  woodlands  deep  among. 
Like  eagles  flashing  from  the  vaulted  blue, 
The  firey  steeds  in  level  flight  pursue. 
In  winding  glens  their  hoofy  thunders  break, 
And  cliffs  responsive  all  their  voices  wake. 
Sir  Maxey,  putting  spurs,  directs  the  course, 
And  sweeps  away  upon  his  coal  black  horse. 
His  comrades  follow  close  in  lengthy  file, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  65 

Wind  their  glad  horns  and  prime  their  guns  the  while. 

The  woods  before  them  part  upon  the  eye, 

And  pass  in  dizzy  currents  as  they  fly; 

And  crouching  thickets  scamper  as  they  near, 

And  flee  together  as  they  disappear. 

Beyond  the  vision's  bounds  they  thus  have  gone, 

Up  hill  and  down,  o'er  streams  and  on  and  on. 

Meanwhile,  alone  on  foot  young  Rodney  hastes 

Along  a  passage  that  divides  the  wastes. 

Forbid  to  rank  he  cannot  take  his  place 

With  mounted  hunters  in  the  merry  chase. 

The  day  wore  on,  and  yet  no  tidings  gave, 
Of  horse  or  hunter  to  the  anxious  slave, 
Till  he,  despairing,  turned  to  watch  a  trail, 
That  saunteringly  wound  along  the  vale. 

The  chase  now  hushed;  the  stag  beyond  his  range, 
Had  lost  his  loud  pursuers  in  a  forest  strange; 
Till  worn  and  hungry,  these  leisurely  drew 
To  where  small  fenceless  fields  adorned  their  view. 
Beyond,  bark  lodges  here  and  there  were  seen, 
Where  lofty  woods  climbed  o'er  a  long  ravine. 
And  slowly  nearing,  on  their  wond'ring  eyes, 
Soft  circling  smoke-wreathes  from  a  village  rise, 
And  float  in  dreamy  banks  against  the  peacefuPskies. 
They  pause,  look  onward,  know  not  what  to  say, 
When  thus,  Sir  Maxey,  spurring,  leads  the  way; 
"  Come  on,  we'll  venture  down  and  ask  for  food 


66  NOT  A    MAN, 

And  friendship  in  this  city  of  the  wood." 
The  hunters  follow  at  a  timid  pace, 
And  apprehension  kindles  in  each  face. 

They  reach  the  village,  slowly  thro'  it  ride, 
And  every  part  explore  from  side  to  side. 
They  find  it  is  deserted  by  all  save 
Small  groups  of  children  and  the  aged  brave. 
These  sit  in  converse  at  their  wigwam  doors, 
While  memory  the  valiant  past  explores. 
They  on  the  neighb'ring  slopes  in  peaceful  plays, 
Their  numbers  gather  and  their  voices  raise. 
The  squaws  are  lab'ring  in  their  scanty  fields, 
Content  with  what  their  wild  industry  yields; 
To  bide  their  warriors'  much  desired  return 
From  distant  hunting  grounds  and  long  sojourn. 

The  Autumn  hills  appear  in  brown  repose, 

And,  clothed  in  lofty  forests,  seem  to  dose. 

And  solitude  asserts  her  reign,  remote 

From  civilization's  rest-disturbing  throat. 

But,  hoofy  'larm  the  wo«dy  silence  breaks, 

The  lone  boughs  flutter  and  the  scene  awakes. 

Around  the  hunters,  childhood  flocks  to  gaze, 

And  age  arising,  looks  in  mute  amaze 

Upon  the  daring  strangers,  who  proceed 

To  rifle  tents,  and  load  each  ready  steed 

With  what  few  skins  their  wintry  hunt  can  hoard, 

And  swallow  what  poor  food  their  empty  stores  afford. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  67 

The  helpless  fathers  of  the  forest  race 
Glance  fearful  each  into  the  other's  face, 
Pursue  the  pillagers  with  heated  eyes, 
And  empty  out  their  souls  in  frequent  sighs; 
While  in  their  gath'ring  frowns  and  gestures  rude, 
Wild  valor  overleaps  decrepitude, 
And  such  a  flourish  of  contempt  displays, 
As  shows  that  stern  resentment  is  ablaze. 
Ah!  could  they  but  recall  the  fleeting  years, 
Or  backwards  journey  to  where  disappears 
The  dim  seen  past,  and  reach  that  stalwart  time 
When  nimble  life  exulted  in  its  prime; 
Three-fold  the  numbers  that  their  tents  defile, 
Would  meet  destruction  in  their  conduct  vile. 
The  hunters  mount  menacing  as  they  go, 
And  thro'  the  village  disappearing  slow, 
Betake  them  to  the  woods  and  brisker  ride 
Along  the  neighb'ring  forest's  eastern  side. 

There  where  a  peaceful  streamlet  ambles  by 

Thro'  dabbling  ferns  and  gossips  cheerfully 

With  shaggy  roots  that  reach  into  the  flood, 

They  spy  a  maid  just  bord'ring  womanhood. 

Now  ranging  feathers  in  her  head-gear  fair, 

And  with  her  fingers  combing  out  her  hair, 

She  on  the  prone  bank  stands,  where  smoothly  flows 

The  liquid  mirror,  and  her  beauty  shows. 

Now  grand  old  sylvans  raise  their  solemn  heads, 


68 

And  make  obesience  as  she  lightly  treads 

Beneath  their  outstretched  arms,  and  looks  around 

To  gather  nuts  upon  the  leaf-spread  ground. 

The  hunters  see  her,  wayward,  wild  and  sweet; 

She  sees  them  not,  nor  hears  their  horses'  feet. 

"  Hold  !"  cries  Sir  Maxey,   "  What  a  lovely  maid  ! 

Ah !  what  a  princess  of  this  ancient  shade  ! 

Let  me  behold  her !     Quiet !     Don't  move ! 

Did  admiration  e'er  see  such  a  dove  ? 

Young  love  no  sweeter  image  ever  drew 

Upon  imagination's  tender  view. 

Her  perfect  form  in  idle  movements  seems 

The  fleeting  creature  of  our  youthful  dreams." 

A  rougher  comrade  at  his  elbow  growls, 

"  A  purty  good  'un  o'  the  dusky  fowls, 

She's  hard  o'  hearin',  le'me  try  my  gun ; 

Give  her  a  skere,  and  see  the  red  wench  run." 

His  deadly  eye  directs,  his  rifle  speaks, 

The  maiden  throws  her  arms  and  runs  and  shrieks; 

Towards  the  hunters  pitiously  flies, 

The  mournful  wastes  lamenting  with  her  cries, 

Till  at  their  feet  she  sinks,  and  all  is  o'er, 

Poor  bleeding  Nanawawa  is  no  more. 

Kind  Heaven  reports  the  shameful  news  around, 
Far  as  her  sorrowing  winds  can  waft  the  sound; 
Soft  echo  in  her  grot  hears  with  a  sigh, 
And  saddened  hills  refuse  to  make  reply. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  69 

"  I  struck  her,"  grunts  the  ruffian,  looking  down, 
"  Let's  leave,"  Sir  Maxey  mutters  with  a  frown; 
And  on  they  ride,  and  covenant  to  keep 
The  crime  a  secret  in  their  bosoms  hidden  deep. 

But  hark !  what  mean  those  distant  shouts  that  rise 

And  seem  to  flap  and  clamor  in  the  skies  ? 

Flying  this  way,  the  pulseless  air  they  wing, 

And  nearer,  clearer,  shriller,  faster  ring. 

The  forest  rages,  groan  the  loud  hills  sore, 

The  hoarse  earth  murmurs  and  the  heavens  roar. 

Returning  warriors  flash  the  trees  between; 

The  fatal  gun  has  called  them  to  the  scene. 

Blazing  resentment  fires  their  warlike  blood, 

They've  passed  their  dwellings  and  enraged  pursued. 

And  mark  the  hunter  whom  their  wrath  o'ertakes, 

For  on  his  head  a  storm  of  ruin  breaks. 

Sir  Maxey's  band  their  loud  pursuers  hear, 

And  spurring  onward  leave  them  on  the  rear ; 

For  Saville  wheeling  quick  each  headlong  steed, 

And  dash  between  the  forests  with  defiant  speed. 

The  raging  warriors  reach  the  bloody  scene, 

See  Nanawawa  lifeless  on  the  green, 

A  moment  pause  and  scan  the  mournful  place, 

Still,  crafty  vengeance  darkening  in  each  face, 

The  way  the  band  went,  narrowly  then  view, 

And  all  another  route  at  once  pursue. 

But  one  tall  form  his  further  flight  restrains; 


7O  NOT  A  MAN, 

Lo !  over  Nanawawa's  sad  remains 
The  White  Loon  bends,  and  kisses  her  pale  cheek. 
And  trembling  lips  that  can  no  longer  speak; 
While  from  his  eyes  the  streams  of  loud  grief  start, 
And  downwards  pour  the  anguish  of  a  manly  heart. 

As  some  wild  wand'ring  brook  that  surges  hoarse, 

And  chafes  and  struggles  in  its  winding  course 

Through  tangled  roots,  and  under  mossy  stones, 

And  over  foamy  cat'racts  makes  its  moans, 

Til]  headlong  down  the  mountain's  steepy  sides, 

The  smoother  current  unobstructed  glides ; 

Flows  ev'ner  as  it  meets  the  level  main, 

And  murmurs  leisurely  along  the  plain ; 

So  now  the  pluming  bands  their  numbers  drew, 

In  fretful  streams  the  pathless  forests  thro'. 

This  way  and  that,  low  crouched,  they  galloped  onr 

Stood  list'ning,  here  and  there,  a  hight  upon ; 

Moved  down  in  level  flight  beyond  the  glade, 

And  glided  into  silent  ambuscade  ; 

And  in  the  branchy  covert  pond'ring  lay 

Beside  the  coming  hunter's  thoughtless  way. 

As  hungry  cougars  in  the  deep  morass, 

To  seize  on  unsuspecting  herds  that  pass, 

Lie  close  and  closer  as  their  prey  draws  nigh, 

Glance  at  each  other  with  impatient  eye, 

And  press  the  eager  moments  as  they  fly; 

So  watch  these  cougars  of  the  wilderness, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  7 1 

And  so  the  moment  of  assault  they  press. 

With  envious  haste  their  barb'rous  knives  they  clasp, 

And  poise  their  hatchets  in  a  deadly  grasp, 

And  leaning  forward  on  their  ponies  wait, 

Like  eagles  on  their  pinions.     Coming  straight 

Along  the  gorge  the  hunter's  chatting  trot 

All  unsuspecting ;  till  the  fatal  spot 

They  reach,  when  forth  from  stilly  ambush  nigh, 

The  yelling  furies  on  their  pathway  fly. 

Once  from  the  tangling  branches  fairly  freed, 

Wild  retribution  fledges  savage  speed, 

Straight  on  the  hunter's  right  and  left  they  wheel, 

And  thro'  their  vitals  plunge  the  reeky  steel 

Swift  as  their  iron  strength  the  blows  can  deal. 

All,  save  Sir  Maxey,  perish;  he  again 

Rides  through  the  storm  like  lightning  to  the  plain, 

Drives  up  his  speed  and  shaves  the  lev'ler  main. 

So  when  fierce  eagle  shoots  along  the  skies, 

Breaks  thro'  the  ambient  clouds  and  downward  flies,. 

Above  the  landscape  swings  his  open  sail, 

And  hangs  in  stately  triumph  o'er  the  vale. 

Forward  he  leans  at  each  successive  bound, 

As  on  and  on  he  reaches  o'er  the  ground. 

Hard  bears  his  courser  on  th'  unyielding  reins, 

Close-scented  danger  swells  his  fiery  veins, 

Dilates  his  nostrils,  to  his  knees  inclined, 

And  pours  their  steamy  volumes  on  the  wind. 


72  NOT  A  MAN, 

O'er  log,  stone,  ditch,  mound,  shrub  and  brushy  heaps, 

Away,  away  he  unobstructed  sweeps. 

In  vain  the  heaving  earth  beneath  him  groans, 

In  vain  the  rising  distance  makes  her  moans, 

In  vain  the  wand' ring  eye  his  flight  pursues, 

In  vain  the  ear  his  feet  receding  woos ; 

Across  their  utmost  limits  both  he  shaves, 

Drown' d  in  the  rolling  depths  of '  dusty  waves. 

The  passing  gale  behind  him  list'ning  swings, 

To  view  the  rival  of  her  speedy  wings, 

With  breath  suppressed,  as  when  some  maiden  sees 

A  deer  go  fleeting  by  her  'mong  the  trees. 

Meanwhile,  away  behind,  disheartened  not, 
The  streaming  warriors  hard  pursuing  trot. 
What  tho'  the  courser  leave  them  like  the  wind  ? 
His  trail  they  see  and  stopping  they  will  find. 

Five  miles  or  more,  from  where  began  the  flight, 
Along  the  summit  of  a  woody  hight, 
Sir  Maxey  reins  his  courser  to  the  ground, 
And  far  and  near  for  Rodney  looks  around. 

As  some  dark  cloud  that  spurns  the  rising  gale, 
Athwart  it  rolls  and  deepens  in  the  vale, 
Pours  loud  alarm  upon  the  plains  below ; 
Where,  in  midfield,  stands  the  deserted  plow, 
And  tall  dread-breathing  forests  timid  grow; 
So  seemed  the  surging  courser  as  he  trode, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  73 

With  bois'trous  hoof,  to  plunge  along  the  road. 

Now  plodding  near  along  the  deep  wood-side, 
The  expert  of  the  wilds,  Sir  Maxey  spied. 
A  brace  of  fowls  and  bleeding  doe  are  strung 
His  rifle  on  and  o'er  his  shoulder  swung. 
Homewards  he  strides  anticipating  toast, 
Stewed  fowl  abundant,  and  savory  roast. 

"  Here  !  Rodney !  Here !  "  Sir  Maxey  urgent  cries, 

The  expert  pausing,  lifts  his  downward  eyes ; 

Alarm  is  flashing  in  his  master's  face, 

With  looks  inquiring  now  he  mends  his  pace, 

When  thus  Sir  Maxey  loud  begins  to  cry : 

"  Fly  for  your  life !  for  God's  sake,  Rodney,  fly  ! 

A  tribe  of  Sacs  are  swarming  on  my  rear 

Drea'dful  to  see,  but  dreadful  more  to  hear ! 

They'll  scalp  us  all  and  burn  the  town  I  fear." 

Towards  the  town  the  Champion  lifts  his  eyes, 

And  on  his  master  fixing,  thus  replies : 

"  No !  let  us  meet  them  ;  hold  your  further  flight, 

Retreat's  in  order  ne'er  before  a  fight. 

To  fly  will  but  reduce  our  wonted  strength, 

And  make  resistance  feebler,  and  at  length 

Expose  our  village  to  the  storming  foe ; 

Who,  if  repulsed,  will  reinforcements  show. 

Lead  not  an  enemy  our  helpless  homes  to  know." 

As  some  loud  boar  who  hears  his  baying  foes, 

Upon  his  sedgy  realms  begin  to  close, 


74  NOT  A   MAN, 

With  groaning  rage  flies  from  his  hidings  dense, 

And  throws  his  lordly  strength  on  the  defense ; 

So  Rodney,  from  his  cov'ring  in  the  wood, 

Flew  to  the  breach,  and  waiting,  firmly  stood. 

Straight  he  beheld  the  warriors  close  at  hand, 

Him  they  behold,  his  movements  understand, 

Wheel  from  his  rifle,  and  their  flight  renew, 

All,  save  two  mightiest,  to  their  man  pursue. 

These  now  dismounted,  turn  their  ponies  loose 

And  in  the  woods  their  vantage  places  choose, 

Peer  thro'  the  thick  boughs  with  a  stealthy  eye, 

Till  at  his  mark  one  lets  an  arrow  fly. 

Thro'  flinching  branches  rings  the  feathered  harm, 

And  strikes  its  painful  barb  into  his  arm. 

E'en  as  some  bear  whom  crouching  hunters  wound, 

Tears  at  the  pain,  and  rages  o'er  the  ground, 

Till  in  the  copse  the  hidden  foe  he  spies, 

And  on  his  covert  fierce  as  fury  flies ; 

So  Rodney,  when  the  flinty  stroke  he  feels, 

The  shaft  plucks  out,  and  from  his  cover  wheels; 

Rages  defiant  thro'  the  sounding  wood, 

Till  near  the  wary  foe  his  steps  intrude. 

Qnick  as  some  stag,  when  horns  and  hounds  assail 

His  secret  lair  within  the  leafy  vale; 

The  pluming  champion  springs  upon  his  feet; 

His  and  bold  Rodney's  eyes  defiant  meet. 

Loud  as  two  bulls  that  roar  upon  the  plain, 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 

Plunge  on  each  others  frothy  sides  amain, 

Till  wasted  strength  their  foaming  rage  prevent, 

The  dread  combatants  groan  with  dire  intent. 

Each  dreads  the  onset  for  the  glare  of  death 
Warms  his  foe's  eyes,  and  fury  wings  his  breath. 
The  chief's  arm  ne'er  by  wilds  nor  dangers  swerved, 
And  Rodney's  by  successive  hardships  nerved, 
With  nervous  haste  their  leathern  girdles  feel, 
And  on  the  gaze  unsheath  their  deadly  steel. 
Each  lifted  hand  its  ghastly  freight  displays, 
Each  hurried  glance  the  narrow  field  surveys ; 
With  each,  defiance  can  no  farther  go, 
Unless  it  walk  beyond  a  prostrate  foe. 
As  two  tall  beeches  shaken  by  the  wind 
Approach  each  other;  now  with  heads  inclined, 
Now  rush  away  with  quick  impetuous  roar, 
And  now  approach,  inclining  as  before; 
So  bending  to  and  fro  the  champions  stand, 
Till  loud  they  rush  together,  hand-to-hand, 
Rough  as  the  surge  when  sounding  billows  meet 
Between  the  schooners  of  an  anchored  fleet. 
Each  in  his  left  hand  holds  the  other's  right, 
And  struggles  o'er  the  ground  in  horrid  plight, 
Now  on  their  knees,  now  bounding  in  the  air, 
And  now  half-stooped  to  earth,  and  groaning  there. 
Their  lips  all  death-like  on  their  teeth  they  clench 
And  grate  defiance  harsh  at  each  long  wrench, 


76  NOT   A   MAN, 

That  vainly  strives  the  grasp  to  disengage, 
And  in  the  foe's  heart  plunge  the  steely  edge. 
The  savage  champion  feels  his  waning  strength 
Give  away,  and  yielding  to  his  fears,  at  length 
Pours  forth  three  dreadful  whoops  of  wild  distress, 
That  start  the  lone  ear  of  the  wilderness. 
An  answer  in  the  distance  soon  was  heard, 
And  parting  a  dense  thicket  now  appeared 
A  warrior  fell,  with  cautious  step  and  slow, 
As  when  some  cougar  scents  a  covered  foe. 
New  life  to  Rodney  !     Gracious  Heaven  save  ! 
A  doubled  danger  doubly  nerves  the  brave  ! 
He  frees  his  knife  with  desp'rateness  of  strength, 
And  in  the  savage  sheaths  its  deadly  length; 
And  as  he  lifeless  sinks  with  a  loud  groan, 
Bold  Rodney  at  the  other  heaves  a  stone. 
Firm  on  his  head  the  shrieking  fragment  flies, 
The  dying  warrior  rolls  his  painful  eyes, 
Sinks  on  the  turf,  that  whitens  with  his  brains, 
And  hugs  the  clod  that  drinks  his  flowing  veins. 

The  dauntless  hero  of  the  woody  waste, 

To  leave  the  scene  of  blood  directs  his  haste; 

With  gun  in  hand,  surveys  his  passage  well, 

And  strides  along  the  stream-divided  dell; 

Arrives  in  Saville  ere  the  sun  goes  down; 

Explains  his  wounds,  and  makes  his  combat  known. 

With  tongues  of  praise  the  village  meets  her  slave, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  77 

The  women  soothing,  cheering  him,  the  brave. 

No  strength  has  courage,  to  the  fears  disguise 

In  downcast  glances  ot  his  serious  eyes. 

The  horrid  brake  conceals  the  skulky  foe, 

And  o'er  him  darkness  falleth  like  a  mantle  low. 

"  Ah !  Sad  mistake  ! "  the  fathers  of  the  town 

In  painful  concert  mutter  up  and  down 

The  mournful,  streets;  "  Ah  me  !  a  fatal  freak  ! 

When  wisdom  yields  to  folly,  valor's  weak. 

Ah,  indiscretion  !  parent  of  all  woe, 

That  causeth  peace  to  rouse  a  crouching  foe  I 

The  sober  blacksmith  threw  his  hammer  down,  ^ 

And  wiped  the  great  drops  from  a  sooty  frown, 

His  anvil  mounted,  and  with  words  of  steel 

Went  on  to  utter  what  his  heart  did  feel. 

And  as  the  sun  sank  in  the  hills'  embrace, 

His  sad  rays  streaming  in  old  Joseph's  face, 

That  vacant  looked,  a  picture  made  of  dread, 

That  many  strong  hearts  trembled  as  they  read. 

And  Gabriel  Grimes,  the  'Squire,  'mong  his  books 

Sat  drown'd,  assaying  in  his  serious  looks, 

To  trace  a  legal  thicket  on  his  gaze, 

That  showed  no  exit  and  no  ent'ring  ways. 

"  What  ?  Ho  !  "  Sir  Maxey  shouts  with  martial  air, 
"  Before  a  struggle  yield  not  to  despair. 
For  these  discretions  valor  makes  amends, 


78  NOT  A  MAN, 

We  hold  the  means,  but  Providence  the  ends. 
Fly  to  your  arms,  and  set  a  heavy  guard, 
And  coolness  keep  for  strategy  prepared. 
Have  wives  and  children  shut  in  doors  till  morn, 
And  then  will  danger  of  his  locks  be  shorn." 

The  honest  cotters  hear  him  with  a  sigh, 
And  glance  around  them  with  a  doubtful  eye  ; 
Proceed  toward  the  village  church  and  stand 
In  dread  suspense,  a  hopeless  little  band. 
Now  darkness  lowers  like  a  gloomy  pall, 
The  muffled  drum  proclaims  a  solemn  call, 
And  lightenblown  out  reposeless  courage  waits 
The  signal  of  the  sentry  at  the  gates. 
In  converse  low,  the  fathers  watch  in  arms, 
For  night's  familiar  sounds  now  seem  alarms. 
The  deep  low  baying  of  unusual  curs, 
Discloses  restlessness  not  wholly  theirs, 
For  honest  dogs  that  stealthiness  abhor, 
Which  doth  conceal  the  steps  of  savage  war. 
Hark !  List !  a  war-whoop  starts  the  dismal  fen  ! 
A  moment  lingers,  and  is  heard  again. 
Hope  stops  her  flight,  conjectures  disappear, 
Attack  is  certain,  and  is  crouching  near. 
With  noiseless  tread  the  sylvan  warrior  steals, 
(Him  darkness  in  her  mantle's  folds  conceals,) 
Beneath  the  very  cabin's  walls,  unseeen, 
And  yet  may  pass  the  peering  watch  between. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  79 

When  Heav'n  responsive  to  his  sally  cries, 
Will  hideous  grow,  and  shut  her  sickened  eyes, 
And  from  the  pitchy  womb  of  darkness  born, 
Red  massacre  behold  the  mournful  morn. 
Ah  !  now  must  courage  meet  the  unsheathed  test 
That  makes  stern  manhood  tremble  in  his  breast. 
Escape  hath  shut  her  paths  upon  his  eye 
And  leaves  him  doomed  to  conquer  or  to  die. 

In  age's  low'ring  look  and  muffled  speech, 

The  young  see  trouble,  and  w.ith  sobs  beseech 

An  explanation  at  the  lips  which  hold 

The  dreadful  secret  that  cannot  be  told. 

Childhood  avoids  the  wand  of  magic  sleep  ; 

Forgetfulness  assays  in  vain  to  steep 

His  wakeful  senses  in  her  drowsy  dews ; 

Close  on  composure's  heels  alarm  pursues. 

In  solemn  council  lean  the  village  sires, 

Where  hope's  last  smold'ring  ember-glow  expires ; 

Sir  Maxey's  indiscretions  yet  deplore, 

And  thus  in  concert  sad  their  minds  explore: 

"  Our  ammunition  most  in  hunting  spent, 

Our  numbers  scattered  and  resistance  bent, 

To  send  to  Dearborn  yet  for  aid  remains 

The  only  prospect  that  our  reason  gains, 

That  rises  hopeful  from  disaster's  plains. 

The  troops  perhaps,  by  timely  warning  may, 

In  mounted  march,  rescue  the  sinking  day. 


80  NOT  A  MAN, 

But,  who  will  go?     Who'll  dare  these  twenty  miles, 
Of  forest  peril,  night  and  savage  wiles? 
Who'll  bear  the  news,  when  he  on  foot  must  go, 
For  not  a  horse  can  'scape  the  wary  foe!" 

The  young  and  valiant  called  upon  to  choose 

The  way  to  glory  or  her  hights  refuse, 

In  vacant  looks  this  truth  leave  manifest, 

The  glory-fires  warm  another's  breast. 

Then,  as  a  hunter  calls  his  faithful  dog, 

To  dare  the  treach'rous  sands'  and  cross  some  bog. 

Sir  Maxey  to  his  bleeding  servant  cries : 

"  Say,  Rodney,  can't  you  fly  to  Dearborn?  Rise, 

Your  rifle  take,  be  quick !  look  sharp  !  be  gone  ! 

Let  what  you  do  be  well  and  quickly  done." 

As  some  firm  rock  that  brawling  floods  oppose, 

In  all  their  wanton  rage,  Rodney  arose, 

Disgust  red  kindling  in  his  manly  face, 

Looked  on  the  lords  of  his  unhappy  race, 

And  spoke :   "  My  masters,  such  your  titles  are, 

Let  all  irreverence  from  my  thoughts  be  far; 

But  I've  till  now  a  silent  list'ner  been, 

And  have  your  timid  operations  seen. 

And  now  I  ask,  with  but  a  servant's  claim 

To  audience,  and  in  a  servant's  name, 

I  ask,  with  what  do  brave  men  guard  their  wives, 

And  homes,  and  children,  but  with  their  own  lives  ? 


AND  YET  A    MAN.  8 1 

With  all  your  bosoms  cherish  as  their  own, 

With  all  they  know,  and  all  they've  ever  known, 

Exposed  to  danger,  sueing  you  for  aid, 

I  ask,  why  have  you  this  evasion  made  ? 

If  I,  an  alien  to  your  house  and  hearth, 

The  ignoble  sharer  of  a  slavish  birth, 

Am  called  to  take  your  parts,  be  well  apprised, 

Your  conduct  is  but  cowardice  disguised. 

Had  I  a  single  treasure  to  me  dear, 

A  single  home  joy  bright,  or,  even  were 

I  owner  of  my  life,  my  arm  I'd  bare, 

And  thrust  my  fingers  into  peril's  hair. 

But  none  of  these,  and  not  a  cheer  within 

My  darkened  breast,  what  may  I  hope  to  win  ? 

Naught  but  the  praise  of  mere  obedience, 

The  fame  of  dogs!     Nay!  ere  I  journey  hence, 

Bring  down  command  to  tent  with  kind  request, 

Own  me  a  man,  an'd  trust  a  manly  breast. 

For  be  assured,  although  your  slave  am  I, 

He  will  not  cower,  who  will  dare  to  die; 

He  sees  no  terror  in  menace's  eye. 

The  gaping  wounds  I  for  my  master  wear, 

Already  warn  me  that  I  unrewarded  bear." 

Now,  Rodney  ended,  and  a  mute  despair 
Fell  on  his  hearers,  for  he  breathed  an  air, 
So  foreign  to  their  knowledge  of  a  slave, 
With  liberty  so  audaciously  brave; 


•82  NOT  A  MAN, 

That  with  the  tameness  of  stupidity, 

They  on  their  bosoms  leaned  their  chins,  to  see 

Weak  folly  tamper  with  a  lion ;  when 

•Sir  Maxey  turned  away,  and  never  spoke  again. 

In  hope's  wide  fields  there  was  no  further  day, 

And  now  their  only  star  had  passed  away. 

As  when  beseiging  cloud    surround  the  hills, 

Whose  troubled  bosom  night  with  terror  fills, 

Rude  shepherds  tremble  in  their  darkened  tent, 

To  hear  the  mountains  wail  and  woods  lament ; 

Till  lo  !  upon  the  brim  of  vision  far 

Appears  the  joyous-beaming  morning  star  ; 

So  quaked  these  townsmen  of  St.  Vincennes'  wood, 

Till  in  their  midst  fair  Dora  Maxey  stood, 

A  ray  of  hope  to  all  their  bosoms  dear, 

A  day-break  in  their  cloud-gloom' d  land  of  fear. 

-So  young  and  gentle,  so  serenely  wild, 

At  once  a  heroine  and  a  lovely  child  ! 

The  band  dispersing  with  her  conqu'ring  eyes, 

In  daring  tones  to  Rodney  she  replies  : 

*l  Brave  servant,  thou  hast  nobly  said  and  true, 

JLet  valor  wear  his  scars  and  glory  too, 

But  know  that  woman  by  her  jealous  lords 

Unhindered,  in  her  great  heart  e'er  awards 

To  stalwart  manhood,  love,  esteem  and  praise, 

And  glories  most  in  his  most  daring  ways. 

By  caste's  frail  grants  let  those  win  hearts  who  can, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  83 

What  woman  loves  is  manliness  in  man. 
Now  she  is  here,  for  her  thy  life  expose, 
And  nobler  years  will  her  rewards  disclose. 
The  time  now  wings  this  way,  when  Gratitude 
Shall  clasp  thee  to  her  bosom,  and  the  good 
And  great,  and  brave  of  all  the  valiant  earth 
Will  own,  nay  more,  delight  to  own  thy  worth. 
To  Dearborn  then  and  spread  the  dreadful  news, 
While  danger's  hights  more  timid  souls  refuse." 

Now  Rodney  bow'd  his  face  towards  the  ground, 
Until  his  bosom  this  expression  found : 
"  The  humble  subject  of  thy  will  I  stand, 
For  thy  request  to  me  is  a  command, 
The  which  to  disobey  's  the  coward's  task, 
Mine  is  to  do,  fair  one,  and  yours  to  ask. 

Now  Dora's  lilly-touch  with  sweetest  haste, 
Her  father's  weapons  on  his  servant  placed, 
And  thus  the  fortunes  of  the  hour  decides ; 
For  he,  with  gun  in  hand  and  nimble  strides, 
The  speechless  groups  of  villagers  divides, 
With  cougar  caution  slowly  out  proceeds, 
But  faster  goes  as  further  he  recedes, 
Till  sent'nels  past,  deep  in  the  howling  night 
His  footsteps  sink,  and  he  is  out  of  sight. 

While  still  suspense  with  throbbing  int'rest  waits, 
And  slow-speeched  dolour  instances  relates 


84  NOT  A   MAN, 

Of  grisly  dangers  conquered  by  the  fates ; 

Of  savage  bands,  when  border  strength  was  smalIT 

Beat  back  from  many  a  forest-cabin's  wall, 

Of  women  moulding  as  their  husbands  fired, 

And  children  watching  where  the  foe  retired; 

Fair  Dora  leaning  on  her  elbow,  sate 

Within  her  window,  o'er  the  village  gate 

That  eastward  looked  towards  Dearborn,  and  prayed 

That  Rodney's  flight  in  no  mishap  be  stayed. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  85 


THE  PAIR  CAPTIVE. 

The  idle  winds  at  dawn  that  strayed 
Thro'  wavy  depths  of  joyous  shade, 
The  early  chirp  of  breeze-swung  boughs, 
The  carol  of  the  mountain  brows, 
The  far  off  brawl  of  farms  that  broke 
The  drowsy  silence  of  the  morn, 
And  eager  baying  which  awoke 
Responsive  to  the  flying  horn, 
In  covert  near,  or  echoing  dell, 
On  Rodney's  ear  like  omens  fell ; 
For  troubled  Dearborn  he  had  found 
In  need  of  all  his  garrison; 
And  now  for  Saville  sadly  bound 
His  pensive  footsteps  wander' d  on. 

Wild,  strangely  broken  landscapes  lay 
'   Along  his  solitary  way. 
Soft  gazing  thro'  the  morning  gray, 
To  right  and  left  against  the  sky, 
The  border  hills  were  stacked  on  high ; 
And  as  upon  his  eye  they  rose, 
And  shook  their  forests  from  repose, 
Their  brighter  aspect  on  they  drew, 
A  sober  wear  of  filmy  blue, 


86  NOT  A  MAN 

Like  time's  remotest  visionary  hue. 

But  Courage  can  no  longer  lie 
With  folded  arms,  when  on  his  eye 
There  springs  an  opportunity. 
Tho'  beaten  oft  upon  his  walls, 
And  often  tho'  his  banner  falls, 
Whene'er  the  day  a  breach  supplies^ 
True  Courage  from  defeat  will  rise, 
And  to  renew  the  conflict  flies. 
Now  in  the  lonely  glen,  or  far 
Amid  the  rocks  whose  shoulders  bar 
The  toiling  footsteps  of  young  light, 
Wild  Rodney  turns  a  nimbler  flight. 
No  mountain  stag,  when  clam'rous  hornsr 
Him  of  the  rousing  danger  warns, 
Hath  ever  quicker  brushed  the  dew, 
Or  fleeter  leapt  the  deep  shades  thro', 
Than  Rodney  fled  with  his  sad  tale 
To  'larm  the  cotters  in  the  vale. 
His  face  with  apprehension  pale, 
To  many  a  woodman's  open  door, 
The  signal  of  disaster  bore. 

With  gestures  wild,  to  arms  he  called, 
With  words  of  war  their  hearts  appalled,. 
And  as  the  stout  bands  gathered; 
He,  warning  others,  flew  ahead. 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 

The  settler  on  the  doorsill  rude 
Of  his  poor  forest-home,  firm  stood, 
And  as  the  news  more  wild  would  run, 
He  felt  the  triggers  of  his  gun. 
And  glancing  thro'  the  forests  wide 
To  some  near  neighbor's  'gan  to  stride. 
Thus  Rodney  from  the  forests  drew 
To  meet  the  battle — not  a  few. 
And  ae  the  corn-fields  raised  a  shout, 
And  hills  and  valleys  emptied  out, 
Bold  hearts,  that  would  the  rescue  try, 
The  hurried  glance  of  many  an  eye ; 
The  ceaseless  pacing  to  and  fro 
Of  those  who  waited;  and  the  slow 
And  guarded  accent  of  each  tongue 
That  marked  the  speakers,  them  among, 
Disclosed  how  thick  that  Peril  hung 
Her  storm-swelled  billows  in  the  sky, 
And  troubled  Peace's  canopy. 

The  vale  fermenting,  Rodney  left, 

As  lion  wild  of  young  bereft ; 

And  tho'  the  wasty  forests  wheeled 

A  speed  that  would  have  shamed  the  steeled 

And  wildest  travel  of  the  horse, 

That  snuffs  up  strength  and  leads  the  course. 

By  distant  lodge  and  lone  abode, 

Where  not  a  rudest  fence,  nor  road, 


S8  NOT  A  MAN, 

A  mark  of  civilization  made 
Within  the  vast  primeval  ,shade, 
Untiring  as  the  wind  he  strode. 
Miles  off  a  weary  hill  upon, 
His  early  footsteps  met  the  sun. 
His  eyes  as  earnest  as  the  streaks 
Of  light  that  dashed  along  the  peaks 
In  living  crimson ;  far  away 
The  nook  sequestered  did  survey, 
'Mid  which  his  fated  Saville  lay. 

A  faint  smoke  rose,  and  slowly  curled 
In  pensive  wreaths  against  the  sky,      * 
And  drifting  farther  off  on  high, 
Like  visions  of  the  glory-world ; 
Hung  sadly  on  the  distant  shore 
Of  indistinctness;  then  passed  o'er, 
Now  dimly  seen,  now  seen'no  more. 
What  apprehensions  thrilled  him  now ! 
What  dread  conjectures  clenched  his  brow 
Had  Saville  just  from  calm  repose 
Awakened?     Or  had  pluming  foes 
Her  cheerful  homes  in  ashes  lain, 
And  heaped  her  sacred  hearths  with  slain  ? 
The  dilatory  smoke  seem'd  born 
Of  blazing  plenty's  stirring  morn, 
Or  rolling  from  a  famished  fire, 
That  had  in  its  devouring  ire 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  89 

Licked  up  all  life  that  near  it  lay, 
And  turned  to  eat  itself  away. 
Down  from  the  hights  his  way  along, 
From  rock  to  rock,  till  lost  among 
The  lofty  woods  that  bowed  and  sighed, 
He  turned  with  yet  untiring  stride ; 
And  from  the  intervening  vale, 
Emerged  and  stood  aghast  and  pale. 

Lo !  all  his  hopes  had  crumbled  to  the  dust ; 

Saville  had  fallen  in  the  direful  fight ; 

And  from  devouring  Ruin's  fire-jaws  thrust 

Her  poor  remains,  disgorged  by  sickened  night 

In  morning's  lap,  yet  steamed  an  ember-smould'ring  sight. 

Coal  heaps  where  homes  once  stood,  and  bodies  charred, 

Of  innocence  and  beauty  in  the  heaps ; 

Scalped  heads  from  love's  keen  knowledge  even  barred, 

By  savage  battle's  hands ;  and  little  steeps, 

Where  wound  the  village  paths  to  field  or  wood, 

Made  red  and  slippery  with  kindred  blood, 

Were  sights  that  filled  the  hero's  saddened  eyes ; 

The  tributes  gathered  by  hostilities. 

Ah !  how  destruction's  devastating  hand 

There  fell  upon  delights !     How  his  eyes  scanned 

With  gorgon  glee,  the  ghastly  path  he  made 

Thro'  Peace's  bow'rs  within  the  western  shade  ! 

And  like  a  jackal  at  the  lion's  side, 

There  Folly  laughed  to  see  her  fallen  pride. 


90  NOT  A  MAN, 

Lo !  now  the  Champion  bends  his  daring  brow, 

And  thro'  the  ruins  plods  pond'ringly  slow; 

A  sob  suppresses,  sighing,  "Me !  ah,  me  ! 

O,  Dora !  fairest  Dora !  where  is  she  ?  " 

A  low'ring  cloud  encamps  around  his  soul, 

And  sorrow's  big  rain  down  his  troubled  cheek  doth  roll. 

A  tiny  heel-print  leaving,  lo!  he  spies, 

In  which  there  here  and  there  a  torn  spray  lies; 

A  flash  of  joy  light' nings  in  his  eyes. 

The  way  it  moves,  with  breathing  hushed  he  views, 

And  eager  as  a  rolling  flood,  pursues. 

Thro'  dense  shades  leaning,  now  he  threads  along, 

He  gains  commanding  hills,  high  woods  among. 

With  fearless  steps,  divides  the  lowly  vale, 

And  like  a  mountain  hart,  the  rocks  beyond  doth  scale. 

Of  how  he  sped  for  eager  miles  away; 

How  strange  scenes  filled  the  melancholy  day, 

Of  how  the  rustle  of  some  waste-fed  herd, 

How  plantive  woods  that  piped  and  chirped  and  stirred ; 

Or  how  the  distant  cat'ract's  pensive  moan 

Alarmed  or  moved  him,  cannot  here  be  shown ; 

But  on  in  wild  pursuit  he  ponders  still, 

And  stands  at  sundown,  on  an  oak-brow' d  hill, 

When  solemn  night  comes  on  with  noiseless  tread, 

And  o'er  the  landscape  doth  her  rayless  mantle  spread. 

Not  many  paces  had  the  night  come  on 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  9 1 

Blund'ring  with  sable  steps,  when  still,  upon 

A  log  sat  Rodney  in  despondent  mood ; 

When,  lo!  a  light  approached  him  in  the  wood. 

'•What !  "  arising,  cries  he,  in  an  undertone, 

"Is  this  which  haunts  me  in  these  wilds  alone ? ' 

And  quick  aside  he  noiselessly  steals, 

To  where  a  denser  shade  his  halt  conceals; 

When  two  old  women  of  the  skulky  bands, 

Mope  by  with  pots  of  water  in  their  hands. 

Torches  they  bear,  upon  their  way  to  shine, 

In  oil  steeped,  and  riven  from  the  pine. 

He  marks  their  movements  with  an  eager  eye, 

Their  way  pursues,  and  waits  discovery. 

So  when  some  mastiff  thro'  the  sleeping  folds, 

A  stranger  passing,  loiteringly,  beholds, 

He  waiting  lies,  or  follows  crouching  low, 

The  errand  of  the  visitor  to  know ; 

When,  if  in  thieving  he  his  hands  invest, 

A  roaring  chastisement  will  him  arrest. 

Now  where  beyond  the  vale  a  cliff  ascends, 
Around  whose  base  an  unknown  river  bends, 
A  smoking  camp  the  peering  watcher  spies, 
And  warlike  satisfaction  lights  his  eyes. 
Beneath  the  stooping  boughs  he  can  behold 
The  busy  squaws  swarm'd  round  by  warriors  bold. 
Then  in  the  rocks,  a  score  of  yards  away, 
He  like  a  crouching  lion  eyes  his  prey. 


92  NOT    A  MAN, 

•"  Oh,  Heav'n  !"  he  gasps,  and  turns  his  painful  eyes 

From  where  in  hideous  hands  his  Dora  lies,  ' 

To  raving  lusts  a  fair  and  tender  prize. 

Fair  as  a  moon  that  o'er  the  night's  face  steals, 

And  gaping  rocks  and  grizly  wastes  reveals, 

The  sweet  and  patient  face  of  Dora  shone 

Upon  these  scourges  of  the  wilds  unknown. 

The  rabble  now  in  high  confusion  runs, 

Their  knives  the  warriors  grapple,  now  their  guns. 

Claim  the  fair  triumph  ere  the  game  decides, 

While  shouting  might  the  opposing  voice  derides. 

Soon  other  methods  they  to  conquest  choose. 

This  one  or  that  the  tiny  captive  woos 

With  wild  expressions  of  languishing  love, 

Like  demons  longing  for  the  light  above. 

With  heated  eyes  they  stare  into  her  face, 

Drag  her  soft  bosom  in  a  rough  embrace; 

Their  beads  display,  their  painted  head-gear  show; 

Like  satyrs  gibber,  and  like  monsters  blowT. 

Sweet  as  the  vespers  of  some  plaintive  stream, 

Or  as  the  sounds  in  a  mid-summer's  dream, 

Dora  lisps  something,  with  her  fair  hands  clasped, 

When,  "Ah,  my  God,  she  prays  ! "  wild  Rodney  gasped. 

The  camp-fires  glare  upon  her  lifted  hands, 

And  on  her  wrists  disclose  the  bloody  bands. 

When,  in  the  night,  the  hero  thrusts  his  form, 

Pierce  as  the  lightning-arm  that  strikes  the  storm. 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 

A  stalwart  warrior  hands  the  pleading  maid, 
And  drags  her  roughly  thro'  the  darkling  shade, 
While  to  her  tender  remonstrance  replies 
A  monster's  scowl,  and  laughter  mocks  her  cries. 
The  fiery  watcher  scans  the  dark  field  o'er, 
And  finds  a  smooth  way  straight  his  feet  before. 
Now  all  his  strength  he  in  his  poised  arm  flings, 
The  impatient  moment  checks  its  onward  wings ; 
Till  like  an  eagle  dropping  from  the  skies, 
Right  on  the  howling  band  the  swift  avenger  flies. 

A  flash  of  steely  lightning  from  his  hand, 

Strikes  down  the  groaning  leader  of  the  band; 

Divides  his  startled  comrades,  and  again 

Descending,  leaves  poor  Dora's  captor  slain. 

Her,  seizing  then  within  a  strong  embrace, 

Out  in  the  dark  he  wheels  his  flying  face; 

His  victims  leaves  to  struggle  with  surprise, 

And  like  a  phantom  thro'  the  forest  flies. 

She,  brave  as  steel,  against  his  bosom  lies ; 

Gasps,  "  Rodney,  is  it  you,  or  but  a  dream  ! 

Oh,  have  you  come !  Oh,  are  things  what  they  seem]?" 

He  speaks  not,  but,  with  stalwart  tenderness 

Her  swelling  bosom  firm  on  his  doth  press. 

Leaps  like  a  stag  that  flees  the  coming  hound, 

And  like  a  whirlwind  rustles  o'er  the  ground. 

Her  locks  swim  in  dishevelled  wildness  o'er 

His  shoulders,  streaming  to  his  waist  or  more  ; 


94 

While  on  and  on,  strong  as  a  rolling  flood, 

His  sweeping  footsteps  part  the  silent  wood. 

Now  low  beneath  the  list'ning  boughs  he  leant, 

Now  thro'  the  tow'ring  upland  swifter  bent, 

And  on  a  hill,  where  in  her  gentler  sway, 

The  open  sky  lent  vision  one  dim  ray, 

He  pausing  stood,  to  cast  a  look  around, 

And  catch,  if  possible,  some  warning  sound. 

But  all  was  still ;  the  wide  world  was  asleep, 

Save  that  a  waking  night-wind  there  did  creep. 

Then  Dora,  like  a  heroine  fair  and  true, 

Cried,  "Rodney  !  Rodney  !  Ah,  I  know  'tis  you." 

•"  Yes,  Dora,"  lisps  the  Champion,  and  applies 

His  bloody  knife  to  loose  her  painful  ties ; 

When,  like  a  bird  that  mounts  on  airy  wing, 

To  dash  into  the  light  of  joyous  spring, 

She  rose,  she  fluttered  to   his  strong  embrace, 

With  streams  of  joy  pouring  down  her  upturned  face. 

Heaven  might  envy  such  "a  scene  as  this, 

Since  angels  ken  no  more  of  perfect  bliss 

Than,  when  disaster  and  a  direful  day 

Conspire  to  lead  a  fair  young  life  away 

In  captive  chains,  to  red-eyed  lusts  a  prey, 

Is  felt  by  him  whose  fearless  hand  rescues, 

Tho'  howling  danger  on  his  devious  path  pursues. 

Miles  further  on  the  twain  in  converse  stand, 
Where  depth  on  depth  of  rayless  wastes  expand; 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  95 

Together  lean,  and  on  their  lone  way  peer, 

Listen,  to  catch  night's  voices,  but  hear 

Their  hearts  leap  only,  and  the  footfalls  weird, 

That   round  the   anxious   lonely  heart   are  always  beating 

heard. 

From  gaping  wounds  much  Rodney's  strength  has  flown ; 
Against  a  tree  he  sets  his  rifle  down, 
Submits  to  Nature's  soft  compelling  sway, 
And  there  concludes  to  bide  returning  day. 
His  blanket  winds  his  manly  form  around, 
And  spreads  his  weary  length  along  the  ground. 
"  Here,  Dora,"  then  he  speaks,   "  rest  on  my  arm, 
My  life  shall  stretch  between  you  and  all  harm ; 
Your  frail  and  much  worn  strength  some  rest  must  have, 
Or  you'll  escape  the  foe  to  find  a  grave." 

No  word  speaks  Dora,  but  her  timid  eyes 
Survey  the  spot  where  her  defender  lies ; 
Then  as  a  lamb  when  prowling  wolves  appear, 
The  horned  defender  of  the  folds  will  near, 
She  'proaches  Rodney  •  stands  in  trustful  mood 
And  looks  around  her  in  the  dismal  wood. 
Reluctant  now,  and  innocently  shy, 
She  kneels  upon  her  turfy  couch  close  by, 
Her  hands  extend,  so  delicately  white, 
In  earnest  prayer  unto  the  God  of  Night, 
In  grace  Divine  upon  her  to  descend, 
And  o'er  her  guardian  to  in  gentle  mercy  bend. 


96  NOT  A   MAN, 

Then  in  his  bosom  nestles  with  deep  sighs 

That  bring  great  drops  of  sadness  to  his  eyes. 

"  Oh  sleep,  descend,  and  seal  thy  lovely  sight !  " 

Said  Rodney  in  his  heart;  "  no  harm  this  night 

Can  thee  befall.     And  when  the  op'ning  day 

Shall  spread  her  gentler  guidance  on  our  way, 

My  life  shall  guard  the  way  before  thy  feet ; 

Tho'  dangers  thronging  thick,  await  us  there  to  meet." 

The  bending  heavens  drop  a  tear  and  sigh, 

Old  forest  sent'nels  spread  their  shelter  nigh, 

And  night  winds  burthened  with  their  heavy  dews, 

Strip  off  their  dullness,  and  their  soft  sounds  use, 

While  in  deep  musings  sits  the  pensive  hour 

And  fills  composure's  urn  in  slumber's  quiet  bower. 

Robing  the  hills  in  light  and  beauty,  now 

A  late  moon  hangs  upon  yon  mountain's  brow, 

Looks  stilly  on  the  world's  round  sleeping  face, 

Then  veiled  in  silver  clouds  withdraws  with  queenly  grace. 

Now  Dora  wakes  from  strange  and  fitful  dreams, 

The  brightest  rival  of  the  bright  moon's  beams. 

Soft  light  between  the  parting  branches  steals, 

And  Rodney's  stern,  still,  manly  brow  reveals. 

In  him  who  slumbers,  one  can  better  read 

The  master  passions  and  the  thoughts  which  lead; 

For,  then  the  face,  obedient  to  no  call 

Of  shrewd  deceit,  shows  nothing  false  at  all; 

But  on  the  features  silent  truth  doth  write 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  97 

Her  plainest  letters,  in  their  plainest  light. 

Thus,  sighing,  looked  the  fair  young  frontier  maid 

Into  the  sleeper's  open  face,  and  said : 

"What  deep  marks  there  hath  hardship's  plow-share  laid?- 

Reserve  how  manly  there  !     What  self-control ! 

What  resolution  !     Ah  a  man  of  soul !  " 

Then,  as  some  bird  that  hails  the  bloom-crowned  spring,. 

O'er  sunny  meadows  spreads  her  wayward  wing, 

And  joyous  flits  where  all  the  woodlands  sing ; 

Dora,  as  wayward,  lifts  her  lovely  mouth, 

Sweet  as  the  dewy  blossoms  of  the  South ; 

On  Rodney's  forehead  parts  the  tangled  hair, 

And  gently  leaves  affection's  impress  there. 

He  wakes;  and  straightway  Dora  whispers:   "  Look 

How  yonder  moon  lights  up  this  lonely  nook 

With  silver  glory !     Could  I  but  forget 

Dear  Sayille,  and  the  scenes  that  haunt  me  yet, 

Rapt  fancy  here  would  build  a  wild  retreat, 

And  gladly  linger  in  her  forest  seat." 

Then  Rodney,  rising  :   "  Day  is  almost  here, 

For  now  the  Seven  Stars  do  disappear; 

So,  think  not,  Dora,  o'er  the  past  to  brood, 

For  loneliness  abhors  a  theme  of  blood ; 

The  day  may  o'er  your  sorrows  brightness  fling; 

The  saddest  Winter  hath  a  joyous  Spring. 

Hope  on,  for  this  sweet  dream  I  had  to-night : 

I  stood  high  on  a  farm-surrounded  hight, 


-98  NOT  A  MAN, 

Where  fruitful  hills  rose  round  the  even  view, 
Not  indistinct,  but  robed  in  charming  blue. 
There,  sober  herds  in  peaceful  order  strayed, 
And  tinkliiig  folds  enliven'd  the  evening  shade. 
Love's  pensive  reed  wound  the  fair  vales  along, 
Or  sauntered  leisurely  his  flocks  among. 
Now  I  reclining  on  my  elbow  leant, 
To  sweet  winds  list'ning  as  they  came  and  went, 
And  tuned  their  many  stringed  pleasurement; 
When,  o'er  me  bending,  ere  I  saw  from  where, 
An  angel  stood  in  golden  waves  of  hair 
Half  drowned.     Regarding  me  with  care,  she  drew 
Nearer,  kissed  my  forehead,  and  upward  flew." 

Then  spake  the  angel  of  the  hero's  dream : 

"  Surely  some  happy  token  that  doth  seem. 

And,  could  we  but  unveil  the  mystery, 

And  now  discover  the  vast  yet  to  be, 

Some  future  bliss  we  both  in  it  might  see." 

And  with  evasive  sweetness  now  she  turns 

To  where  the  mournful  waste,  her  Saville's  ashes  urns. 

Much  she  relates,  and  Rodney  sorrowing  hears, 
Sometimes  with  groans  responsive,  sometimes  tears. 
The  waiting  town  in  deep  suspense  she  shows, 
While  brake  and  fen  are  howling  with  her  toes. 
With  heavy  countenance  and  long  drawn  sighs, 
Danger  asserts  her  reign  in  valor's  eyes; 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  99 

The  women  weep,  and  pray,  and  tear  their  hair, 
And  raise  a  storm  of  turbulent  despair. 
Children  and  women  now  are  barred  in  doors, 
Without,  the  heavy  footed  tumult  roars, 
And  loud  is  heard  the  bloody-handed  fray. 
The  townsmen  struggle,  but  are  swept  away. 
•Out  in  the  storm  the  screaming  children  fly, 
And  frantic  mothers  follow  where  they  fly, 
But  this  on  Rodney's  soul  doth  saddest  stay: 
Dora  is  dragged  a  captive  in  the  wilds  away. 

Pair  Dora  ended  here,  and  Rodney  rose, 

Walked  from  the  boughs  that  did  their  rest  enclose, 

And  said :   "  Let's  journey,  yonder  comes  the  morn ; 

See!    how  the  mountains  laugh  the  vanquished   night    to 

scorn ! 

And  hand  in  hand  they  meet  the  bright-eyed  day, 
As  on  to  Dearborn  Rodney  leads  his  lovely  prize  away. 


100  NOT  A  MAN, 


PORT  DEARBORN. 


Fort  Dearborn  is  a  strong  and  goodly  place, 
And  o'er  the  frontier  looks  with  valiant  face 
To  greet  the  hostile  tread  of  savage  harm, 
With  tongue  of  thunder  and  an  iron  arm. 
Far  up  he  stands,  on  a  commanding  ground, 
.  With  grizly  turrets  rising  high  around: 
Block  houses  rude  protect  the  outer  posts, 
Where  pass  the  sentries  quick  before  the  camping<jhosts. 

Here,  erst,  as  eagle  drives  the  trembling  dove 
O'er  meadows  broad,  to  shelt'ring  cliffs  above ; 
Proud  Black  Hawk  rose,  stern  monarch  of  the  wood, 
The  red  Napoleon  of  Solitude, 
And  drove  young  civilization  from  the  West, 
To  fly  and  hover  in  loud  Dearborn's  breast ; 
Till  peace  returning,  with  a  gentle  hand, 
Beckoned  her  forth  again  to  plant  the  flow'ry  land. 

Long  since  the  "Nation's  battle-arm  had  cleared 
Her  skirts  of  border  outrages ;  and  reared 
By  daring  hands,  the  settler's  cabin  stood, 
By  every  steeam  and  in  the  mighty  wood; 
Since  labor  found  in  ease's  arms  repose — 
This  strong  avenger  of  his  race  arose ; 
And  vindicating,  or  for  woe  or  weal 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  IOI 

The  redyman's  homes,  unsheathed  the  battle  steel, 
And  made  the  border  throat,  alas  !  his  bloody  logic  feel. 

He  saw  neath  mammon's  desecrating  tread, 

The  turf-green  dwellings  of  the  sacred  dead. 

The  forest  sachem,  and  the  honored  sire, 

No  more,  within  their  lofty  homes,  awoke  the  fire 

Of  burning  council  in  the  patriot  breast; 

His  sun  sunk  now  forever  on  the  wigwam-smoking  West. 

His  leaping  streams  with  cascade  sadness  mourned, 

His  fleet  canoe  was  from  its  moorings  turned, 

His  squaws  and  children  bade  their  fields  adieu, 

To  starving  on  their  tearful  way  pursue; 

And  bloody-armed  aggression  followed  where  they  flew. 

Oh  !  who  can  then  approach  the  chieftain's  shade, 

With  ought  but  honor,  e'en  tho'  he  was  made 

To  tear  his  heart  from  ev'ry  tend'rer  tie, 

And  to  his  loved  ones  with  an  arm  of  hostile  succor  fly? 

Great  hero,  peace  !  Thou  and  thy  thousand  braves, 

Too  weak  to  stand,  too  proud  to  e'er  be  slaves, 

On  valor's  lips,  shall  to  the  list'ning  years 

Be  told :  and  urned  in  woman's  love  and  tears, 

Thy  name  to  Time's  remote  end  carried  down, 

Shall  treasured  be  and  claimed,  by  high  Renown. 

As  some  fierce  comet  rises  in  the  West, 

With  locks  of  flame — and  in  deep  crimson  drest — 

Swims  ominously  up  a  troubled  sky, 


102  NOT  A    MAN, 

With  fury  stationed  in  his  fiery  eye; 

While  panting  superstition  drops  a  tear, 

Prophetic  looks,  and  thinks  Time's  end  is  near; 

So,  in  Migration's  pathway  thou  didst  rise, 

The  flaming  terror  of  the  border  skies, 

And  so  aggression  looked  on  thee  with  fearful  eyes. 

Young  morn  descending  from  her  Eastern  tour, 

Now  on  the  mountains  chased  a  panting  show'r; 

The  vap'rous  slumbers  of  the  valleys  broke, 

And  to  the  waking  fields  a  sweet  breath'd  greeting  spoke. 

On  wings  of  song,  enhVning  cheer  went  round, 

O'er  sad-voiced  woods  by  Autumn  suns  embrowned, 

And  o'er  farm-studded  vales,  with  here  and  there 

An  orchard  neat,  that  crowned  some  rustic's  care, 

And  friendly  cot,  beside  the  hillside  stream, 

The  rude  ideal  of  his  glory  dream. 

Then,  in  a  gate  that  looked  from  Dearborn  West, 

Sir  Maxey  stood,  and  thus  his  soul  exprest: 

"  My  Dora  !  Oh,  my  Dora  !  Where  is  she  ? 

Torn  from  my  care,  oh,  saints,  how  can  it  be  ! 

To  pine  away  in  desert  wastes  and  die, 

Or  feed  the  savage  lusts  that  on  her  breast  may  lie. 

My  only  Dora  !  Would  I  ne'er  had  been; 

Or  that  I  never  had  my  angel  seen ! 

Oh,  my  life's  flower,  doomed  to  droop  and  faint, 

Where  ling'ring  exile  mocks  thy  lone  complaint ! 

Bereavement's  hand  poured  out  my  grief  to  full, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  10$ 

And  gave  me  sorrow  from  a  ghastly  skull; 
When  from  my  side,  that  one  who  shared  my  cares, 
The  burden-bearer  of  my  weighty  years — 
Was  borne  away,  my  home  to  light  no  more  ! 
E'en  then  Hope  whispered  of  a  sainted  shore. 
But  tongueless  sits  Despair,  dark-plumed  with  dole, 
And  strikes  her  painful  beak  into  my  soul ! 
When  something  to  my  sad  heart  seems  to  say, 
"  *  Thy  Dora  pines  in  desert  wilds  away.'" 

Two  captains  who  upon  their  steeds  had  sate, 
And  heard  him  thus  lamenting  in  the  gate; 
Now  putting  spurs,  together  eager  cry: 
"  Withhold  thy  woeful  'plaint,  where  chivalry 
Will  test  his  strength.     Say  to  us,  aye,  oh  Sire, 
And  we  will  rescue  Dora  ere  the  day  expires." 

"Aye,"  cries  Sir  Maxey,  "  hear  a  father's  vows; 
Who  rescues  Dora,  hath  her  for  a  spouse, 
And  purse  of  gold  besides.     Now,  Westward  fly,. 
And  haste  thy  search,  for  we  have  this  surety, 
Of  him,  the  only  one  who  'scaped  the  foe, 
Her  captors  on  a  Westward  way  did  go." 

Swift  as  the  shadows  of  a  flying  cloud, 

From  Dearborn  forth  now  rode  the  soldiers  proud; 

But  ere  their  morn  of  glory  had  begun, 


104  NOT   A    MAN, 

High  in  their  brightest  sky,  appeared  a  brighter  sun. 
Rodney  came  leading  Dora  from  a  wood, 
And  in  their  presence  like  a  vision  stood. 

'Their  steeds  they  reined,  they  made  a  martial  bow; 
On  Rodney  gazed,  awed  by  his  valiant  brow; 
Olanced  then  at  Dora,  and  together  sighed : 
"  Whose  she  shall  be,  the  future  must  decide  !  " 
But  ere  their  admiration  found  a  tongue, 
She  passed  them  by  the  village  trees  among. 

'"  My  life  no  more  embraces  pure  delight," 
;Sighs  one,  "With  that  fair  maiden  out  of  sight !  " 
'The  other  echoes:   "My  life's  shine  is  o'er, 
If  I  must  see  that  beauty  rare  no  more ! " 
"But,"  then  the  other  mourns,  "her  father  vows, 
That  who  rescues  her  hath  her  for  a  spouse  ! 
Then,  if  the  valiant  task  hath  now  been  done 
By  yon  stern  slave,  our  prospects   darken  neath  an  eclipsed 

sun." 

"  A  slave  contend,"  his  friend  indignant  spoke, 
"  In  love's  fair  lists,  and  wear  a  master's  yoke  ! 
A  servant  dog,  a  stalwart  negro  clown, 
Unhorse  a  knight,  the  queen  of  love  to  crown  ? 
Nay,  thanks  to  Jove,  the  negro's  proper  sphere, 
Is  by  him  wilfully  abandoned  ne'er, 
His  longings  suited  to  his  station  are  ; 
For  faithfulness  he  craves  a  master's  care, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  105 

And  craves  no  more  ;  he  stoops  a  bashful  face 

From  azure  looks,  and  love's  white-arm'd  embrace. 

Born  to  be  ruled,  kind  nature  seals  his  breast 

'Gainst  Cupid's  darts  and  Hymen's  visions  blest. 

In  him  ambition  's  merest  insolence, 

And  chivalry  is  brazen  impudence." 

"  Between  us  then,"  the  other  aptly  cries, 

•"  The  open  list,  of  flow'ry  conquest  lies, 

And  let  the  god's  to  excellence  award  the  prize." 

Now,  Dora  turning  from  the  perilous  wild, 

Ran  to  a  waiting  father's  long  embrace, 

And  kissed  the  streams  of  joy  from  his  face. 

Brave  Dearborn  shouted  o'er  the  rescued  child, 

Till  loud  rejoicings  from  his  iron  throat, 

Rolled  o'er  the  wastes  and  shook  the  hills  remote. 

Round  after  round  the  cheering  cannon  rung, 

Old  Solitude  for  once  had  found  a  tongue, 

And  spoke  responsive,  her  deep  lone  retreats  among. 

All  day  the  eyes  of  pleasure  sparkled  bright, 

Around  the  evening  hearth  the  circling  news  gave  light; 

The  hand  of  valor,  beauty's  fair  hand  shook, 

And  joy  beamed  forth  in  age's  sober  look. 

The  tragic  fate  of  Saville  hindered  not, 

So  much  was  sorrow  in  their  mirth  forgot. 

Lo  !  where  yon  gloomy  walls  ascend  on  high ; 
Whose  dismal  windows  meet  the  passing  eye, 


106  NOT  A  MAN, 

Where  Memphis  rises  in  her  steepled  pride, 

And  gazes  on  fair  Mississippi's  tide, 

Where  Memphis,  robed  in  glitt'ring  wealth  doth  rise, 

The  boast  of  Tennessee,  the  pride  of  Southern  skies. 

Turn  there  thy  foot,  thou  who  hast  wandered  long 

Thro'  life's  sad  ways,  and  by  the  haunts  of  wrong ; 

Thou  who  hast  heard  of  mammon  hardened  souls, 

Who  drank  iniquity  from  brimming  bowls, 

Or  who  hast  dreampt  of  Slavery's  grinding  car, 

Mounted  by  Crime,  and  dragged  by  dogs  of  war ; 

Followed  by  Famine,  whose  skeleton  hand 

Compels  submission  from  a  trembling  land; 

While  empty  Ignorance's  idiot  smile, 

The  hard-gleaned  tribute  is,  to  custom  vile: 

Turn  there  thy  foot,  thou  who  hast  heard  or  read 

Of  virtue,  chained  to  lust's  infamous  bed; 

Pause  at  the  door !  The  keeper  comes  !  I  hear 

His  footsteps  on  the  stony  floor  anear  ! 

The  slow  key  grates,  bolts  move,  oppressed  I  feel, 

The  sullen  prison  opes  its  jaws  of  steel; 

And  in  the  Hell  of  Slavery  aghast  I  reel. 

Among  the  sable  inmates  now  I  wend 

My  way,  and  they  in  fervent  aspect  bend 

Their  faces  in  the  dust,  cry,  "  Massa  !  "  "  Lord  1" 

But  their  bright  tearful  eyes  speak  more  than  cry  or  word. 

They  kiss  their  haughty  keeper's  iron  hand, 

Pursue  his  way,  or  round  him  suppliant  stand. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  IO/ 

Ah  !  Christian,  canst  thou  bear  it  ?  Turn  thine  eyes 
To  where  yon  sorrow  burdened  mother  lies  ! 
She  upward  looks,  and  wrings  her  anguish,  see ! 
Say  to  her,  "  Woman,  oh,  what  aileth  thee  ?  " 
And  thou  shalt  hear  the  tearful  answer  sad, 
"  Two  children,  once  to  cheer  my  life  I  had; 
The  one  was  three  years  old,  a  little  girl, 
Her  brow  was  clustered  o'er  with  many  a  curl, 
Her  eyes  were  bright,  and  blue  as  Summer's  skies ! 
But  oh,  my  sweet  faced  darling  !  "  loud  she  cries, 
"  My  babe  !  Dear  Willie !  Oh,  my  two-month's  old  ! 
Was  from  my  bosom  snatched  away,  by  cold 
And  cruel  hands — methinks  I  hear  his  cry — 
To  pine  without  a  mother's  care  and  die  ! 
Behold  that  mother,  Christian,  she  is  hushed 
By  yon  stern  keeper's  glance,  e'en  though  her  squl  is  crush 
ed. 

And  yonder  see  hoar  age  from  friendship  torn, 
And  from  the  goodly  scenes  where  he  was  born ! 
Burdened  with  grief,  he  leans  toward  the  grave, 
And  drags  his  chains,  a  poor  unpitied  slave. 

This  is  the  slave  pen,  reader,  this  the  place 
Where  boasting  Slav'ry  drives  the  sable  race, 
To  wait,  as  trembling  sheep  the  slaughter  wait, 
Their  buyer's  entrance  at  yon  iron  gate. 
Here  tender  hands  of  tearful  remonstrance, 
Entreating  age's  humble  upward  glance, 


IO8  NOT  A  MAN, 

The  sudden  out-bursts  of  the  grief  torn  heart, 
The  infant's  'plaint,  from  parent  arms  apart, 
The  maniac's  wail  and  gaunt-eyed  hunger's  sigh, 
That  e'en  doth  bring  a  tear  in  Heaven's  eye, 
Cannot  in  man's  cold  heart,  awake  dead  sympathy. 

Ah,  Tennessee,  hast  thou  a  Hermitage, 

Where  dwel'st  a  laurelled  hero  and  a  sage  ? 

Great  sage  !  Proud  leader  of  the  daring  band, 

Who  loosed  red  havoc  from  the  battle  hand 

On  Blount's  poor  fort,  till  hardy  sea-worn  tars, 

With  crime  acquainted,  and  athirst  for  wars, 

Withdrew,  their  heads  hung,  from  the  scenes  of  blood, 

Or  o'er  the  mangled  inmates  weeping  stood ! 

Let  Silence  rest  her  hand  upon  thy  mouth, 

And  cease  thy  boasts,  Oh,  vain  Chivalric  South ! 

Say  to  thy  mem'ry,  "Ah,  lead  me  not  back 

In  yon  deep  ghostly  past,  with  visions  black  !  " 

Thou  may'st  forget  that  from  their  brake-bound  seat, 

As  free,  true  hearts,  as  e'er  to  freedom  beat, 

Were  dragged  in  chains,  fastened  by  Slavery's  laws, 

Or  chased  by  blood  hounds,  from  whose  gaping  jaws, 

Dropped  human  gore,  to  stain  the  sacred  soil 

That  bloomed  and  grew  beneath  the  hand  of  toil. 

Thou  may'st  forget,  in  a  repentant  soul, 

The  wigwams  of  the  wasted  Seminole; 

And  in  the  world's  great  temple,  at  the  shrine 

Of  patriotism,  kneel  neath  hands  divine. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  109 

Lo !  where  yon  whirling  to  and  fro 

Of  men  in  business  tide,  doth  so 

Intoxicate  with  eagerness; 

And  in  the  eddy  of  voices  hear, 

The  shrill  cry  of  the  auctioneer ! 

"  Agoing  !  going  !  "  rises  clear. 

While  crowds  of  anxious  list'ners  press, 

And  doubt  and  gaze,  and  sigh  and  guess; 

Shrewd  speculation,  in  the  face 

Of  business  looks:  his  quick  eyes  trace 

The  way  of  vantage,  till  he  make 

A  fortune,  or  a  fortune  break. 

Suspense's  trembling  speech  is  heard, 

For  now  the  crier,  word  by  word, 

Sinks  lower,  lower,   "  going,  gone," 

The  bargain  's  clasped,  the  work  is  done; 

And  now  he  calls  another  one. 

There,  rising  as  the  wave-dashed  rock, 

Firm  in  his  tow'ring  scorn; 

There,  standing  on  the  buyer's  block, 

See  that  sad  form,  but  not  forlorn. 

In  other  climes  was  he  not  born  ? 

Yes,  where  yon  Western  bowers  spread 

Their  green  luxuriance  o'er  the  head 

Of  bare-armed  labor,  and  the  sound 

Of  rural  sports,  the  long  year  round, 

Is  heard  on  care's  enlivened  way ; 


IIO  NOT  A  MAN, 

He  once  hath  known  a  brighter  day. 
There  where  young  industry's  strong  arms 
Hath  in  the  forests  hewn  down  farms, 
And  in  the  vale  his  pastures  spread, 
And  by  the  waters  clean  flocks  fed; 
Full  harvests  reaped  upon  the  hills, 
And  in  the  valleys  built  his  mills; 
There,  once  he  mingled,  true  and  brave, 
A  home-guard  loved,  and  faithful  slave. 
'Tis  Savllle's  Rodney,  Dora's  friend, 
A  faithful  servant  to  the  end. 
And  do  you  ask  why  he  is  sold  ? 
I  answer,  then  you  shall  behold. 

There  is  a  famous  spring  by  Dearborn's  walls, 

Whose  rush  bound  wand'ring  to  the  heart  recalls, 

Of  frontier  daring,  olden  memories, 

That  oft  bring  brightness,  oft  tears  to  the  eyes. 

Here  erst  the  Sachem,  in  his  plumy  pride, 

Beheld  his  clans  reposing  at  his  srde, 

When  on  the  tongue  of  forest  councils  burned 

The  words  of  war,  or,  when,  in  peace  returned 

From  weary  hunting  grounds,  they  cheerful  lay, 

To  watch  the  painted  face  of  dying  day. 

Here  civilization  met  his  savage  foe, 

And  with  an  arm  of  lightning  laid  him  low, 

And  on  the  open  hights  of  triumph  stood, 

Clasping  this  lucent  treasure  of  the  wood. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  Ill 

Here  now  the  peaceful  villagers  repair, 

To  soothe  the  burdened  ear  of  cumb'rous  care. 

Lo  !  yonder  lab'rer,  from  his  field  comes  by, 

And  nears  with  quick'ning  steps  and  brightened  eye. 

Here  trysting  whispers  linger  in  the  shade, 

Where  rustic  courtship  clasps  his  bashful  maid, 

And  sober  converse,  to  the  scene  endeared, 

Tarries  till  vespers  soft  are  in  the  village  heard. 

Hail  thou  best*  blessing  of  the  varied  train, 

That  cheers  life's  journey  thro'  earth's  weary  plain  ! 

Nectar  for  gods,  and  bright  wines  for  the  king, 

But  draughts  for  lab'rers  from  the  running  spring. 

Now  Dora  stood  at  this  ancestral  spot, 

And  list'ning  to  the  waters  sing,  forgot 

That  she  was  waiting  for  her  running  over  pot. 

Loud  jovial  labor  in  the  field  was  done, 

And  sounds  of  mellow  night-fall  had  begun. 

The  swallow  told  her  stories  in  the  eaves, 

The  groaning  wain  creaked  home  beneath  its  sheaves, 

The  swain  garrulous  in  his  empty  weal, 

Debated  with  the  hills,  till  sudden  wheel 

Of  rooky  clamor  from  the  elms,  made 

His  hair  stand  up,  till  he  had  crossed  the  shade. 

The  shrill  cock  blew,  the  hillside  barn  behind; 

And  crow  belated,  asks  the  sent'nel  wind, 

Which  way  was  nearest  to  his  roosting  mates. 

The  reaper  homeward  sang  thro'  slamming  gates, 


II2  NOT   A   MAN, 

And  o'er  the  sheep-cote  woods  a  moon  hung  pale, 

Like  some  lone  shepherdess  that  hears  a  lover's  tale. 

Now  Dora  wond'ring  what  the  waters  said, 

Leaned  o'er  the  rocks  and  lingered  in  the  shade, 

Till  Rodney,  standing  at  her  elbow,  spake: 

"  You  to  obey,  this  only  chance  I  take, 

Now  to  my  aching  heart  the  secret  ope ; 

May  I  to  hear  some  pleasant  tidings  hope  ?  "  ^ 

Then  Dora  answered,  "  Oh  !  my  faithful  slave, 

In  my  distresses  well  didst  thou  behave. 

The  life  of  me,  and  of  my  father  too, 

Are  to  thy  manly,  brave  exertions  due; 

But  thou  hast  kindled,  by  thy  interest, 

The  fires  of  jealousy  in  many  a  breast. 

Hence,  thou  art  sold.     The  two  commanders  here 

Have  followed  thee  with  bitterness  severe, 

Till  for  thy  safety,  father  has  thee  sold, 

Away  to  Memphis,  Tennessee,  I'm  told. 

But  Rodney,  bear  it !  In  God's  strength  be  bold  !  " 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  AYLORS. 


Where  Summer  crowns  with  orange  blooms 

The  land  of  pines  and  cypress  glooms  \ 

We  wander  forth  by  field  and  lane, 

In  woody  shades  with  plaintive  strain. 

Ye  lonely  bayous  catch  the  sound  ! 

Ye  languid  fen-brakes  pass  it  round ; 

Ye  pensive  hills  your  silence  break, 

And  let  the  mournful  echo  wake ! 

Of  errant  Pride's  chivalric  deeds, 

Of  frowning  Caste's  unholy  creeds, 

And  their  worse,  sin-begotten  heir, 

Black  Slavery,  a  lay  I  bring, 

And  of  her  painted  crimes  dare  sing. 

When  Satan,  hurled  down  from  the  skies, 
O'er  this  terrene  his  fallen  eyes 
In  search  of  ruin  hotly  cast, 
Hell-bound,  but  harm-bent  to  the  last ; 
Those  shores  of  ours,  where  Mexic's  Sea 
Holds  watch  with  the  Atlantic,  he 
Touched  not  in  his  tremendous  flight ; 
For,  stooping  there,  the  sons  of  light 
He  spied  encamped  in  battle  form 
Around  a  captive  ocean  storm, 


114  NOT  A   MAN, 

From  which  his  equinoctial  bent, 

Wheeled  short,  and  further  northward  went. 

.Sweet  land !  conceived  in  chivalry, 
Brought  forth  in  wild  adventure,  reared 
In  conquest's  arm,  to  rivalry 
And  old  ambitions  long  endeared ! 
The  fairest  of  thy  sister  train 
And  fairer  than  thy  mother  Spain, 
Thou  art  of  all  the  world  a  lone, 
Lone  beauty  of  the  fragrant  zone. 
Thy  sisters  in  their  lurid  North 
Surpass  in  wealth  but  not  in  worth ; 
More  native  grace  hast  thou  than  they, 
Less  wrathful  winds  and  winters  gray. 
Thou  hast  no  somber-low'ring  skies, 
In  which  the  white-winged  tempest  flies ; 
Where  shiv'ring  woods  aloud  bewail, 
All  riven  by  the  angry  gale, 
Their  cheerless,  torn,  and  chilly  state, 
Like  empty  beggars  at  your  gate. 
But  such  thy  distant  sisters  know,     • 
Within  their  wintry  wastes  of  snow, 
And  hills  as  speechless  as  the  tomb, 
And  sullen  plains  of  voiceless  gloom. 
But  girdled  in  thy  summer  zone, 
As  a  maid  who  waits  her  lover, 
Or  to  meet  him  walks  alone 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 

Under  twilight's  dewy  cover, 
Thou  dost  come  to  meet  each  year, 
Always  smiling,  never  drear. 
And  can  it  be,  that  thou,  this  goodly  land, 
•Could  foster  slavery  with  a  jealous  hand  ? 
Yea,  when  less  comely  States  had  seen  the  stain, 
Of  crimson  guilt  upon  their  skirts  too  plain, 
They  shook  the  galling  traffic  from  the  clutch 
Of  commerce,  and  forbade  her  further  such. 
But  thou,  when  banished  Slavery  left  the  North, 
In  wretchedness  and  shame,  to  wander  forth, 
A  heartless  strumpet,  seeking  e'en  a  shed; 
Thou  then  did'st  take  her  in  and  share  thy  bed  ! 
And  can'st  thou  wonder  that  thy  hardened  heart 
Should  make  humanity's  shoulders  smart, 
When  to  errantic  crime  thou  wast  a  bride, 
When  Pagan  barbarism  wedded  Roman  pride? 

Of  him  whose  valor  first  inspired  onr  strain, 

A  slave  to  Aylpr  bound  we  sing  again. 

The  shady  woodlands  of  his  native  West, 

To  him  are  not :  in  richer  verdure  drest, 

A  fairer  aspect  Florida  presents, 

But  not  more  pleasure ;  that  which  most,  contents 

A  noble  mind,  the  liberty  to  dare 

And  do,  the  man,  he  now  no  more  can  share. 

To  him  what  are  luxurious  verdure's  sweets, 

And  cypress  shades,  and  orange-bloom' d  retreats 


Il6  NOT    A  MAN, 

When  for  once  dear  delights  his  heart  now  hopeless  beats? 

Lo  !  where  yon  hedge-bound  fields  beyond  the  way, 

Wave  on  the  view  exuberently  gay, 

Exulting  in  their  flow'ry  excellence, 

And  clasping  in  their  green  embrace,  a  dense 

Deep  grove  of  sturdy  pines  whose  solemn  shade, 

Has  o'er  delicious  seats  a  curtain  made  ; 

There  stoocj  the  Aylor  house,  when  in  its  prime, 

A  brave  old  structure  of  that  princely  time, 

When  rank  and  title  held  unquestioned  sway, 

And  humble  worth  to  fam'ly  pride  gave  way. 

How  often  have  I,  turning  to  its  bowers, 

In  dreams  sat  down  and  wasted  pleasant  hours. 

How  often  traced  its  various  changing  scenes 

O/blossom'd  fields,  bright  lanes,  and  rolling  greens! 

This  goodly  mansion  hath  an  olden  fame, 

And  memories  that  urn  full  many  a  name 

In  honors  lyight.and  not  a  few  in  shame. 

Here  hoary  tenants,  who  in  turn  await  • 

Their  scanty  pensions  at  a  master's  gate  ; 

These,  and  full  many  an  ebon  patriarch, 

Of  Afric's  humble  tribe,  who  wear  the  mark 

Of  bondage,  tell  in  tales  of  cabin  lore, 

Sad  things  that  run  the  eye  with  pity  o'er. 

Thus  of  the  Aylor  line  we  are  informed : 

"  When  erst  colonial  patriotism  stormed 

New  England's  early  hights,  and  stretched  the  hand 


AND  YET   A  MAN.  I  I  7 

Of  burning  eloquence  o'er  all  the  land ; 

And  Puritanic  piety,  allured 

By  Siren  Freedom  to  the  wilds,  endured 

The  long  privations  of  the  wilderness, 

With  all  the  unction  of  true  holiness, 

The  Aylors  mingled  with  the  daring  few, 

Who  in  the  tyrant's  face  the  blade  of  battle  drew. 

With  vict'ry  flushed  on  fortune's  swelling  tide, 

Young  Aylor  soon  had  won  a  lovely  bride, 

The  fairest  flower  of  New  England's  pride. 

Ere  long,  embarked  in  love's  light  craft,  they  join 

With  oars  of  labor,  and  their  hopes  incline 

To  stem  life's  tide;  to  fortune's  source  explore, 

And  in  the  future  near  touch  happiness'  shore. 

Soft  are  the  winds  that  swell  their  first  short  sail, 

And  mild  their  skies,  ne'er  angered  by  a  gale. 

Glad  waves  arise  to  kiss  their  peaceful  keel, 

And  from  their  prow  bright  silv'ry  ripples  steal, 

New  ambient  hills  their  ravished  vision  thread, 

New  argent  fields  and  tinkling  valleys  spread; 

Love  lends  new  relish  as  new  scenes  invite ; 

Hope  points  to  others  not  yet  on  their  sight, 

And  gently  heaves  the  deep  beneath  their  dove-like  flight. 

To  them  the  world  is  one  ovation  grand, 

Where  fortune  show'rs  bright  favors  from  her  hand, 

And  fancy  beckons  to  a  blissful  land. 

Florida  the  inviting  aspect  shows, 


Il8  NOT  A   MAN,       . 

And  here  full  soon  the  Aylor  mansion  rose. 

There,  husbandry  soon  stooped  to  till  the  soil, 

And  ripened  plenty  filled  the  lap  of  toil. 

Bright  Spring  on  Winter's  parting  steps  pursued, 

With  buds  and  flowers  his  ling'ring  footprints  strewed., 

Her  cornfields  spread,  and  orchards  in  the  dell, 

And  waited  till  the  big  rain's  benediction  fell. 

Full,  blue-eyed  Summer,  stately  coming  on, 
With  shouting  harvests  stood  the  hills  upon ; 
The  breath  of  wasting  juices  did  inhale, 
With  bloomy  cotton  whitened  in  the  vale, 
Spread  out  the  ripened  cane  along  the  steep, 
And  waving  rice  fields  in  the  swamp  did  reap. 

Then  Autumn  came,  with  sickle  keen  in  hand, 
And  yellow  sheaves  beneath  her  arm  ;  to  stand 
And  with  her  mellow  voice  to  fill  the  land. 
The  waning  fields  sank  on  the  saddened  view, 
And  melancholy  hills  were  robed  in  blue. 
Brown  Autumn  came,  and  at  her  solemn  close, 
The  swarthy  hands  of  labor  found  repose. 
Then  sports  set  in,  and  harmless  games  began, 
And  through  the  livelong  snowless  winter  ran. 
What  cares  had  slaves  to  mar  their  peace  with  dole, 
And  shut  the  light  of  mirth  out  from  the  soul, 
When  life-long  labor  made  them  richer  none — 
When  nothing  earned  was  theirs  when  work  was  done  ? 
What  reasons  they  to  look  back  with  remorse, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  119 

When  careful  conduct  made  their  state  the  worse 

Or  better  none  ?     Their  lives  were  not  their  own ; 

Hence  past  and  future  were  to  them  unknown. 

Hard  labor's  respite  came,  and  as  it  neared, 

Their  burdens  lightened  and  their  hearts  were  cheered. 

Religion,  work  and  pastime,  all  in  turn, 

They  had ;  but  art  and  science  must  not  learn. 

And  yet,  contentment  these  vast  wants  supplied, 

And  loaned  the  pleasures  caste  had  them  denied. 

The  mind  that  never  grasped  hypotheses, 

Nor  wandered  in  the  maze  of  theories ; 

Nor  toil'd  thro'  demonstrations  intricate, 

Nor  groaned  beneath  old  histories'  vast  weight, 

Can  best  afford  in  other  paths  well  known, 

To  seek  for  pleasures  not  so  over  grown 

The  last  day's  labor  was  a  day  of  feast, 

And  toil-earned  freedom  for  both  slave  and  beast. 

The  groaning  barns  were  filled  from  floor  to  eaves, 

And  all  the  barnyard  stacked  around  with  sheaves. 

Then,  when  the  last  full  load  of  ripened  corn 

Was  gathered  in,  the  master  took  his  horn, 

And  mounted  high  upon  the  rounded  pile, 

Rode  homewards,  sounding,  followed  by  a  file 

Of  empty  wagons ;  while  a  lusty  band 

Of  slaves  came  shouting  on  at  either  hand. 

The  shorn  fields  sank  forsaken  on  their  view, 

And  as  they  nearer  to  the  barnyard  drew, 


120  NOT  A  MAN, 

Slave  cabins  emptied  out  a  roaring  crowd, 
And  gabbling  hillsides  answered  them  aloud. 
Then  shouts  of  triumph  closed  the  boist'rous  scene, 
The  master  king,  and  mistress  crowned  a  queen. 
This  edict  then,  thro'  all  her  milder  reign 
Of  hut-bound  realms,  awoke  a  glad  refrain 
In  servitude's  full  heart :  "Go  waste  the  hours 
As  you  may  wish,  good  slaves;  the  time  is  yours 
From  now  till  blooming  Spring  shall  come  again, 
And  spread  her  painted  sweets  upon  the  plain." 

They  then  set  in  with  ev'ry  setting  sun, 

And  danced  till  they  were  tired  of  the  fun. 

Loud  rang  the  fiddle  on  three  strings  or  four, 

But  louder  rang  their  feet  upon  the  floor. 

The  music,  started  once,  as  well  might  cease, 

For  joy  kept  up  the  dance  with  lively  ease. 

Now  all  hands  joined,  their  circling  knew  no  bound, 

Save  that  they  paused  to  catch  the  music's  sound ; 

And  when  caught,  all  hands  joined  around  again, 

They  whirled  away  to  overtake  the  strain. 

Then,  balanced  all,  they  stood  out  pair  and  pair, 

And  trampled  hugely  down  the  flying  air. 

Thus  on  they  strode  till  night's  last  watch  had  flown, 

Or  they  had  broke  the  smiling  fiddler  down ; 

Who,  sweating  like  a  hunter  in  the  chase, 

Dragged  his  bandanna  o'er  a  hopeless  face ; 

Sore  puzzled,  grinned,  and  chided,  out  of  breath, 


AND  YET  A    MAN.  121 

"  Ah  !  darkies,  will  you  dance  a  man  to  death  ?  " 

Long  ran  their  joyance  thro'  the  grateful  years, 

The  slave  as  happy  as  his  lord  appears ; 

For  then  true  guardian,  the  master  deemed, 

In  all  but  rank  his  servants  kindred  seemed. 

With  him  communing  at  the  Paschal  feast, 

Where  no  distinctions  met  the  humblest  guest ; 

And  with  him  at  the  nuptial  altar  kneeling, 

His  fervent  prayer  the  holy  union  sealing ; 

He,  round  his  dying  couch,  with  sleepless  care, 

Life's  comforts  brought,  and  knew  no  pains  to  spare ; 

Leaned  tearful  o'er  him  till  his  latest  breath, 

And  closed  his  faithful  eyes  to  sleep  the  rest  of  death. 

But  Avarice,  whose  reign  is  rife  with  woe, 

To  earthly  bliss  the  deepest  venom'd  foe, 

In  this  proud  mansion  found  a  lurking  place, 

At  first  discovered  as  a  youthful  grace, 

At  last  unveiling  all  her  frightful  face. 

The  air  grew  tainted  from  her  baleful  lungs, 

And  Discord  there  unloosed  her  howling  tongues. 

There  Anger's  raging  thirst  was  slaked  with  blood 

Drawn  from  the  back  of  groaning  Servitude. 

From  bad  to  worse  the  Aylor  house  went  down; 

In  phrenzy's  bowl  adversities  they  drown, 

Thro'  halls  of  revel  banished  joys  pursue, 

Exhaust  old  pleasures,  madly  pine  for  new ; 

Chase  wanton  transports  thro'  the  mazy  dance, 


122  NOT  A  MAN, 

And  seek  their  wasted  fortunes  at  the  hand  of  chance. 

Then  feuds  and  murder  hurry  to  the  scene, 

And  fam'ly  pride's  dear  bowers  are  there  no  longer  green. 

An  orphan  heir  to  violence  and  shame, 

Now  one  lone  Aylor,  Mosher  is  his  name, 

Holds  undisputed  all  his  lawful  claim. 

The  hand  of  love  and  beauty  both  he  scorns, 

With  broken  vows,  his  wanton  rites  adorns, 

And  in  his  mansion's  every  nook  and  hall, 

With  open  lewdness  holds  high  carnival. 

This  brief  narration,  with  its  changes  fraught, 
Hath  us  once  more  to  meet  with  Rodney  brought. 
The  cabin  dance,  the  banjo  and  the  song, 
Are  courted  yet  by  Afric's  humble  throng. 
They  drown  their  sorrows  in  a  sea  of  mirth, 
And  crush  young  griefs  as  soon  as  they  find  birth 
Neath  dance's  heel;  and  on  the  banjo  string 
A  theme  of  hope,  that  forces  woe  to  sing. 
But  one  is  there,  to  them  a  stranger  born, 
Whose  manly  brow  the  marks  of  thought  adorn. 
The  low  inventions  of  poor  darkened  mind, 
Can  never  in  the  threads  of  nonsense  bind 
This  mental  Sampson;  tho'  by  Slavery  shorn 
Of  rightful  manhood,  weakness  he  doth  scorn. 
The  abject  sons  of  Afric's  injured  race, 
With  cabin  sports  assay  to  cheer  his  face, 
But  all  in  vain ;  their  silly  means  repel, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  1 23 

Instead  of  please,  the  comrade  they  love  well. 

He's  with  them,  but  not  of  them ;  for  the  light 

Of  freedom  flashing  on  him  once,  his  sight 

Has  trained  beyond  low  Slavey's  bounds  to  ken 

The  hights,  that  he  who  treads  will  long  to  tread  again. 

All  day  he  labors,  speaking  scarce  a  word; 

All  night  lamenting  in  yon  groves  is  heard. 

His  ear  no  more  the  torrent's  voice  shall  woo, 

In  deep  shades  musing  long,  or  wand'ring  thro'. 

His  winding  horn  no  more  shall  urge  the  chase, 

Where  the  proud  Wabash  doth  his  woods  embrace ! 

No  more  the  flying  stag  shall  dash  the  spray, 

And  bend  the  hawthorn  from  his  mountain  way; 

And  in  the  blossom'd  fields  of  yellow  sedge, 

In  thickets  brown,  or  in  the  briery  hedge, 

His  wary  spaniel  shall  no  longer  spring, 

Nor  whirring  grouse,  nor  partridge  swift  to  wing  ! 

His  fields  are  gone  !  Farewell,  ye  sports  of  yore  1 

Ye  goodly  seats  on  Mississippi's  shore ! 

And  home  is  gone  !  All  that  makes  labor  sweet — 

His  hearth  is  darkened,  where  he  once  did  meet 

Bright  chirping  mirth  around  hoar  comfort's  feet. 

No  loving  eye  shall  on  his  threshold  wait, 

No  little  footfalls  meet  him  in  the  gate  ! 

No  faithful  yard,  dog  to  the  fence  shall  come, 

To  leap,  and  wag,  and  tongue  his  welcome  home  ! 

Dear  Western  home,  a  tender,  last  farewell !  ! 


124  NOT  A  MAN, 

No  more  shall  Rodney  in  thy  bowers  dwell. 
Lo,  in  the  cane  and  cotton,  far  away, 
He  bends  to  toil  thro'  all  the  sultry  day ! 
Now  on  his  life  a  weary  journey  takes 
Thro'  regions  where  no  day  beam  ever  breaks. 
"Oh,  God !  "  he  mourns  along  the  pensive  hills, 
"  The  rayless  gloom  that  now  my  bosom  fills. 
My  life  ends  here !  existence  tho',  may  creep 
Some  further  on,  but  now  ambitions  sleep  !  " 

Thus,  all  night  once,  alone  he  sighed, 

In  lanes  and  fields  and  forests  wide, 

And  strolling  on,  was  lost  from  view, 

A  deep  dense  pine  shade  wand' ring  thro'. 

There,  where  a  bright  stream  leaping  downward, 

Moaned  o'er  falls  and  rambled  onward, 

Like  a  waywardness  of  childhood, 

Or  a  wild  dream ;  thro'  the  wildwood, 

And  within  a  farthest  recess 

Of  the  forest's  leafy  stillness, 

Where  the  damp  boughs  stoop' d  and  listened, 

And  the  waters  flashed  and  glistened, 

Formed  a  fountain  clear,  still,  blue,  deep, 

In  whose  breast  heaved  Beauty  asleep; 

There, 'while  morn  was  just  awaking, 

Slumbers  from  her  eye-lids  shaking, 

And  her  mountain  stillness  breaking, 

With  her  first  sweet  music  making; 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  125 

There,  with  eyes  upon  the  ground  bent, 

Yet  he  onward  mourning  slow  went. 

All  the  waking  woods  were  merry, 

But  his  heavy  heart  was  dreary. 

So  in  deepening  shades  he  wandered, 

Where  this  wild  strange  stream  meandered; 

Knowing  not,  in  his  sad  musing 

Where  he  went,  blindly  not  choosing 

This  or  that  path,  as  he  went  on 

With  his  eyes  the  ground  still  bent  on. 

In  his  heavy  soul  he  muttered — 

These  words  pensively  he  uttered : 

"Ah  !  bleak  Norway's  churl  may  feel  not 

To  complain  against  his  cold  lot, 

When  he  never  knew  a  better; 

And  the  naked  son  of  Afric, 

Led  about  from  youth  to  manhood, 

In  his  desert  haunt  and  wildwood; 

By  the  bloody  hand  of  Traffic, 

May  not  groan  to  wear  a  fetter; 

But  to  him  whose  soul  doth  cherish 

Longings  that  can  never  perish, 

Who  his  arms  in  fetters  galling 

Feels,  while  liberty  is  calling 

To  her  citadel  before  him, 

With  her  bright  skies  bending  o'erjiim; 

But  to  him,  how  hard  the  fate  is ! 


126  NOT  A  MAN 

Ah,  to  him  how  dark  the  state  is  ! 

Earth  her  every  pleasure  looses 

To  his  eyes,  and  hope  refuses 

All  attempts  to  mount  on  high, 

To  her  dwelling  in  the  sky." 

While  thus  he  mourned  in  this  sad  plight, 

Hard  by  his  way,  deep  out  of  sight, 

A  sudden  mighty  stir  he  heard, 

Of  many  a  flapping  bough  and  bird. 

He  upward  glanced  a  hurried  eye, 

When  thro*  the  parting  branches  nigh, 

Upon  the  brooklet's  other  side, 

A  living  beauty,  lo  he  spied  ! 

In  native  sweetness  clothed,  she  stood 

And  all  her  fair  proportions  viewed 

With  fawn-like  timidness.     She  deemed 

Herself  unseen,  but  watchful  seemed. 

Alone  within  her  soft  retreat, 

The  liquid  mirror  at  her  feet 

Returned  her  beauty  to  her  eyes, 

Till,  warmed  with  innocent  surprise, 

She  stood  admiring.     Now  her  hand, 

As  graceful  as  a  fairy's  wand, 

She  waved  above  the  prattling  stream; 

Then  gentle  as  a  reaper's  dream, 

She  shook  down  raven  locks  of  hair, 

Upon  the  morning's  dew-sweet  air. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  127 

In  deeper  shades  she  now  withdrew, 
But  Rodney's  eyes  as  fast  pursue. 
There,  half  concealed,  she  looks  more  fair, 
And  seems  abashed,  at  e'en  the  air, 

That  scarcely  breathes  upon  her  there. 

#          *          *          *         *         *         * 

A  stolen  glance  at  her  fair  parts, 
Stripped  Rodney's  bosom  to  the  darts 

v 

That  Cupid's  cunning  strength  let  fly, 

Till,  wounded  thro'  his  dazzled  eye, 

He  sighed  for  breath,  his  bosom  held, 

To  hush  its  leapings  as  it  swelled. 

He  shut  his  eyes  to  look  no  more, 

But  looked,  worse  wounded  than  before. 

Then  thought  to  turn  and  steal  away, 

And  thought,  and  thought,  but  yet  did  stay. 

Her  beauty  like  a  full  round  moon, 

Uncovered  in  the  branches,  soon 

Appeared  as  fair  as  e'er  was  seen 

That  lovely  orb,  green  hills  between. 

Then,  step  by  step  on  tip-toe  poise 

She  stole,  and  ev'ry  little  noise 

To  her  had  eyes.     Back  she  withdrew 

Within  the  shade,  and  now  in  view 

Again  in  all  her  beauty  rose, 

And  full  and  clear  stood  list'ning,  close 

Upon  the  marge,  where  grasses  sweet 


128  NOT  A  MAN, 

And  blushing  flow'rets  kissed  her  feet. 
The  wanton  waves  that  played  below, 
With  am'rous  descant  ceased  their  flow, 
And  with  a  strangely  pensive  speech, 
The  maid  to  tarry  did  beseech. 
A  moment  gazing  on  the  flood 
With  Eve-like  innocence  she  stood, 
And  watched  her  perfect  image  there; 
While  lost  within  her  flowing  hair 
Her  small  hand  rambled.     She  had  now- 
Plunged  in  the  panting  stream  below ; 
Had  not  the  sudden  thickets  stirred. 
The  breathless  maiden,  shrinking  heard 
Some  farmer's  lad,  on  errand  soon, 
Towards  her  pipe  his  morning  tune. 
Quick  as  the  lark,  that,  song-hushed  darts, 
When  her  still  brush  some  footstep  parts, 
She,  hasty  dressed,  deep  out  of  sight 
Within  the  thick  boughs  took  her  flight. 
Rodney  pursued,  not  knowing  why, 
Tho'  oft  to  turn  back  he  would  try. 
A  power  in  his  feet  that  drew 
Resistless  as  the  wind  that  blew, 
Kept  him  a  going,  fast  or  slow, 
And  where,  or  how,*he  did  not  know. 
Glance  after  glance  his  dazzled  view, 
Worse  dazzled  as  the  maiden  flew 


AND  YET  A  MAX.  129 

Beyond  him,  and  as  on  he  bent, 
He  knew  not  what  his  bosom  meant, 
In  drinking  breath  on  breath  so  fast, 
And  being  out  of  breath  at  last. 
But  now  his  secret  pleasure  turned; 
Ah !  in  the  distance  he  discerned 
His  master  skipping  onward  too, 
To  keep  the  coy  sight  on  his  view. 
Then,  Rodney  turned  and  stole  away, 
And  toiling,  mourned  the  live  long  day ; 
But  Mosher  Aylor,  stern  as  fate,' 
Pursued,  till  thro'  the  Brentfords'  gate 
He  saw  the  beauty  pass  from  sight, 
Like  some  sweet  vision  of  the  night. 

Now  Aylor  passed  a  wretched  day, 

And  night's  hours  went  their  wingless  way. 

On  all  his  house  he  closed  his  door, 

And  in  a  phrenzy  paced  the  floor. 

With  hands  behind  him  clasped,  he  stood, 

Or  leaning,  sat,  in  sullen  mood, 

And  sighed,  and  groaned,  and  raved  with  pain, 

And  rose  and  paced  the  floor  again. 

Till  midnight's  silence  reigned  around, 

His  discontent  had  reached  no  bound ; 

From  his  vexed  sea  he  saw  no  shore, 

He  never  had  thus  felt  before. 

His  wonted  bowl,  for  him  ha  1  lost 


130  NOT   A   MAN, 

Its  deep  oblivion,  and  crost 
By  broken  dreams,  his  fevered  breast, 
Refused  the  arms  of  balmy  Rest. 
In  this  sad  plight,  a  hideous  cheer 
Before  him  stood  !     The  haggard  seer 
Of  Aylor's  shrine  of  wickedness, 
Has  heard  the  accents  of  distress, 
That  broke  night's  stillness,  and  has  come, 
To  move  the  trouble  burdensome. 
Now  Aylor  spoke,  when  him  he  saw, 
On  whom  he  long  had  looked  with  awe; 
'•"  Here  Micah  !  Micah  !  Micah  !  here  ! 
To  my  complaint,  oh  lend  an  ear. 
This  morning  as  I  strolled  the  wood, 
Deep  thro*  yon  cypress  solitude; 
Where  shores  of  sweetest  green  ascend, 
And  thick  boughs  in  the  waters  bend; 
Fair  as  the  light,  I  saw  a  maid 
"  Unclothe  her  beauty  in  the  shade. 
I  never  felt  a  sting  so  bright; 
I  ne'er  saw  such  an  earthly  sight. 
Not  radiant  May  with  her  perfumes, 
And  songs,  and  show'rs,  and  painted  blooms, 
And  streams  of  crystal  cheerfulness, 
Could  vie  with  her  in  loveliness. 
But,  like  a  bird  of  gorgeous  hue, 
She  vanished  on  my  starving  view  !  " 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  131 

*'  Aye,"  cries  the  seer, ."  no  doubt  have  I, 

That  the  same  bird  which  you  saw  fly, 

Is  the  fair  Creole  visiting 

At  neighbor  Brentford's  watering. 

She  is  a  slave,  a  waiting  maid, 

Brought  down  from  New  Orleans,  'tis  said," 

""A  slave  !  a  waiting  maid  !  a  queen 

Why  don't  you  say ;  for  ne'er  was  seen 

A  fairer -cheek  of  Saxon  hue 

Nor  prouder  eye  of  brilliant  blue. 

Phoo,  pshaw  !  a  slave  !  a  waiting  maid  ! 

That  light-beam  sweet  from  Heaven  strayed?" 

Loud  cries  the  Seer,  "  A  slave  I  know  ! 

And  can  be  bought  as  I  shall  show. 

Dispel  the  phantoms  of  thy  brain, 

And  turn  to  thy  right  mind  again; 

You  must  be  sick  !"   "  No,"  Aylor  cries. 

•*'  I'm  dead  in  love !  "  The  seer  replies, 

Go  pass  in  rest  this  far  spent  night, 

And  by  the  time  young  morn's  in  sight, 

I'll  bring  the  news  to  set  thee  right. " 

Now,  Aylor,  half  consoled,  adjourned 
His  thoughts  till  morn,  and  then  returned 
With  Micah,  to  the  Brentford  seat, 
The  owners  of  the  maid  to  meet. 

The  room  was  darkened  where  they  met, 
And  all  was  quiet,  save  the  fret 


132  NOT  A  MAN, 

Of  restless  boughs,  and  whisp'ring  leaves, 

That  mingle  o'er  the  ancient  eaves. 

Now  Aylor  speaks,  "  For  gold  !  for  gold  I 

Aye,  you  but  say  she  will  be  sold, 

And  you  shall  have  your  price  all  told.'* 

Awed  by  the  speaker's  fiery  eye, 

The  strangers  whisper  this  reply  : 

"  If  her  we  sell,  of  this  beware 

She  must  receive  your  special  ,£are, 

Not  as  a  slave  of  low  degree, 

But  as  a  ward,  descended  free. 

And  this  day's  doings,  ever  keep 

From  earth  a  secret  hidden  deep; 

For  should  the  news,  by  any  means. 

Escape  your  lips  to  New  Orleans, 

And  reach  our  aged  father's  ears, 

'Twill  grieve  away  his  few  frail  years. 

Know  this,  he  loves  Leeona  more 

Than  all  his  children  ten  times  o'er. 

His  frailty  has  a  passion  grown, 

And  each  day  more  his  love  has  shownr 

Till  she  has  to  us^all  become 

The  bane  of  pleasure,  hope  and  home — 

The  idol  of  his  feeble  days, 

The  object  ever  of  his  praise. 

Here  to  this  wat'ring  near  your  home, 

He  with  reluctance  let  her  come. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  133 

Now  from  her  keep  the  fact  concealed, 

That  she  is  sold:  for  if  revealed, 

She'll  pine  away,  and  droop  and  die, 

Or  from  your  house  attempt  to  fly. 

By  wary  speech,  the  truth  we'll  mask, 

If  our  aged  father  ask; 

"  What  hath  befallen  me  ?    Where's  my  dear  ? 

Why  hast  thou  left  my  Ona  there?  " 

This  said,  they  drew  aside  and  spake, 

Concerning  what  price  they  should  take; 

And  when  agreed,  they  answered  bold: 

"Two  thousand  dollars  down  in  gold  !  " 

And  Aylor  with  triumphant  eyes, 

Threw  them  their  gold,  and  seized  his  prize. 

With  tembling  hands  they  count  their  gains, 

In  haste  divide  with  heartfelt  pains; 

For  well  they  know  a  sister's  tears, 

And  sweat,  and  blood,  their  purses  fill. 

Ah  !  well  they  know  a  sister's  years, 

Must  now  float  onward  at  the  will 

Of  him,  who  with  a  shamless  cheek, 

To  buy  the  hand  of  love  would  seek. 

The  offspring  of  a  father's  crimes, 

The  bitter  fruit  of  broken  vows, 

The  charming  bloom  of  hapless  climes, 

The  growth  of  unprotected  boughs; 

Within  the  grasp  of  blighting  lust, 


134  NOT  A  MAN, 

A  lovely  ruin  now  is  thrust. 

What  tho'  a  father's  heart  shall  break, 

In  spite  of  race  Caste,  taught  to  ache, 

And  yearn  thro'  age's  kinder  years, 

For  those  to  whom  Nature  endears; 

What  tho'  he  wakes  with  deepest  groans,. 

What  tho'  his  sleep  with  anguish  moans? 

When  his  first  sorrow's  bitter  blast, 

By  soothing  words  is  guided  past, 

His  law-owned  brood,  will  run  at  last 

Their  race*  in  peace;  tho'  doomed  by  spite., 

A  sister  thro'  the  stormy  night 

Of  bondage  mourn,  a  sad,  sad  sight. 

What  tho'  his  grief  shall  bow  his  head, 

And  while  from  view  all  pleasures  sink; 

He  of  a  Quadroon's  injured  bed, 

In  age's  twilight  stand  to  think, 

And  often  weep  beside  her  grave  ? 

Society  will  whisper  "  Slave  !  " 

His  love  was  wayward,  and  his  wing, 
Waved  wand'ringly  in  life's  warm  Spring, 
He  saw  the  Quadroon,  and  they  loved — 
He  and  Leeona's  mother,  moved 
Liked  sounds  of  some  wild  instrument 
Touched  by  the  wind,  and  sweetly  blent 
Their  lives  in  lasting  pleasurement. 
But  Dame  Caste  turned  her  iron  facer, 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 

And  coldly  frowned  upon  their  course; 
And  drove  sad  love  from  faith's  embrace, 
With  all  the  heartlessness  of  force. 

'Twas  thus  by  social  interest's  sullen  voice, 
Another's  hands  was  made  to  be  his  choice. 
And  thus  it  is  that  many  a  love  has  grown, 
Where  even  Christians  dare  make  it  known. 
Where  Hymen  oft  in  gorgeous  aspect  shows, 
From  true  loi>e  blossoms  not  a  single  rose ; 
While  out  in  fenceless  wastes  of  Nature  spring, 
Discovered  only  in  wild  wandering, 
The  purest  blooms  of  love,  whose  fragrant  breath^ 
Live  thro'  all  life  and  linger  after  death. 

A  sister's  life  is  signed  away, 
Her  brethren  can  no  longer  stay 
To  see  her  drink  the  bitter  cup, 
Which  they  with  sorrows  have  filled  up. 
Leeona  kisses  them  good-bye, 
Regards  them  with  a  tearful  eye, 
And  long  entreats  them  to  make  known, 
Why  she  must  there  be  left  alone. 
And  then  sweet  as  the  fair-eyed  dawn, 
When  her  light  steps  first  brush  the  lawn, 
She  meekly  looked  in  Aylor's  face; 
And  artless  as  a  timid  fawn, 
With  all  of  innocence's  grace, 


136  NOT  A   MAN, 

She  reached  a  trustful  hand  in  his, 

A  hand  as  pure  as  lilly  is, 

And  gently  followed,  till  from  view 

Within  the  Aylor  seat  they  slow  withdrew. 

Now  twilight  waned  and  evening  still, 

Darkened  the  vales,  while  from  each  hill 

Around  came  soft  and  lulling  sounds. 

From  just  beyond  the  vision's  bounds, 

One  voice  was  heard  sweetest  of  all, 

And  pensive  as  a  late  rain's  fall 

Through  Autumn  leaves  when  sad  and  lone 

The  fading  forests  make  their  moan. 

This  was  Leeona's,  poor  girl,  torn 

Away  from  childhood's  hopes  to  mourn. 

Aylor,  meanwhile  in  sullen  mood, 

On  his  piazza  list'ning,  stood 

Roving  thro'  mental  solitude. 

Full  well  he  knew  what  Ona  meant, 

By  her  sad  walks,  and  loud  lament, 

For  he  had  caused  it  all. 

His  overtures  of  stark  deceit, 

She'd  spurned  and  fled  to  this  retreat, 

To  whisper  in  her  Father's  ear, 

Complaints  He  ever  stoops  to  hear. 

So  Aylor  in  Remorse's  thrall, 

Walked  sullen  thro'  his  ghostly  hall, 

Within  a  nook  of  vine  shades  went, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  137 

And  o'er  his  thoughts  in  silence  bent. 

In  Ona's  heart  though  sad,  there  burned 

A  hatred  deep,  for  all  his  aims; 

And  his  entreaties,  he  discerned, 

Were  wind,  and  fanned  the  angry  flames. 

To  her  what  were  the  Brazil's  spicy  breath, 

Or  India's  sweet  pride. 

If  life  were  fettered  with  a  ghastly  death, 

That  pained  but  never  died  ? 

This  night  too,  Rodney  wand'red  forth  to  stroll, 

And  to  the  list'ning  groves  impart  his  soul. 

The  vision  bright,  that  charmed  his  wayward  dream, 

Within  this  wood,  beside  the  peaceful  stream; 

Returned  when  here  he  lingered.     Now  her  home 

To  make  at  Aylor's  she  a  slave  had  come, 

And  Rodney  knew  it  not;  for  by  caste  barred, 

He  could  not  pass  where  wrong  was  standing  guard. 

But  love  hath  ways  that  are  past  finding  out, 

And  secret  triumphs,  that  how  brought  about, 

No  one  can  tell.     Love  hath  an  open  eye, 

And  watches  little  signs  that  others  would  pass  by. 

"  I  saw  her  here,"  thought  Rodney  to  himself, 
"  'Twas  here  she  flitted  by  coy  as  an  elf, 
And  in  yon  boughs  her  disappearance  made, 
When  wanton  sounds  disturbed  the  morning  shade. 
Could  I. but  tell  her.     Ah !  but  fate  forbids  ! 
Poor  Hope  can't  open  there  her  dazzled  lids. 


138  NOT  A  MAN, 

Yet  I  did  see  her,  oh,  I  saw  her  here  ! 

And  in  my  dreams  she  still  doth  bright  appear. 

Thank  HeaVn  there's  none  too  crushed  by  wrong  to  see, 

And  beauty's  the  beholder's  property." 

But  now  his  hope  thro'  darker  clouds  declines, 

And  thus  within  the  sounding  shade  he  pines: 

"  No  more  to  me  ere  life's  short  race  be  run, 

Shall  e'er  arise  another  happy  sun. 

How  shall  I  break  the  vision  that  me  wounds, 

And  drive  it  from  my  recollection's  bounds ! 

A  poor  seafarer,  and  his  star  gone  down, 

From  tempest-arms  while  clouds  of  heaven  are  thrown., 

And  wave-tossed  danger  wails  to  seize  his  bark; 

Am  I,  now  drifting  thro'  a  wreck  strewn  dark. 

Oh,  why  kind  Heaven,  plant  within  my  breast, 

A  blooming  sorrow — love  begot  unrest? 

Content  to  bear  tho'  let  me  journey  on, 

Light  yet  may  break  life's  dismal  waste  upon  ! 

Now  in  the  cypress  gloom,  he  hushed  his  strain,      . 

And  homeward  turned  his  mournful  face  again. 

Eavesdropper  winds,  on  errands  from  the  South, 
In  sandals  tripping,  and  with  dewy  mouth, 
To  Rodney  turned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear, 
The  broken  murmurs  of  a  sweet  voice  near. 
A  maiden  sat  within  the  fragrant  shade, 
And  to  the  night  this  lamentation  made : 
"  This  life  is  all  unreal  as  a  dream, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  139 

Here  woes  chase  woes,  like  waves  upon  a  stream. 

Back  yonder,  just  within  the  past  I  see 

A  bow'ry  home,  where  hands  do  becon  me, 

Tp  join  the  buoyant  hearts  of  childhood's  train, 

And  tread  the  blossom'd  paths  of  hope  again. 

But  here  I  am,  away  from  home  and  friends, 

While  o'er  my  head  a  cliff  of  sorrow  bends, 

Strange  bodings  haunt  my  pillow  in  the  night, 

And  day  uncovers  terror  to  my  sight. 

But,  whom  I  saw  last  eve  within  this  shade, 

Methought  had  by  this  time  another  advent  made. 

A  strong  companion  of  a  troubled  heart, 

He  seemed ;  oh,  that  to  him  I  could  impart 

My  woes ;  oh,  that  I  could  but  see  him  once  !" — here 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  lo  !  the  pan  was  near. 

Away  she  started  at  a  frightened  pace, 

With  red  abashment  kindling  in  her  face. 

Oh,  was  it  real,  could  all  this  be  true  ? 

Was  that  the  nymph,  O  what  must  Rodney  do  ? 

"  Stay,  maid  !"  he  cries,   "  my  wounded  soul  implores, 

Stay,  fair  one,  stay  !  until  my  tongue  explores 

The  hidden  longings  of  a  leaping  heart; 

Hear  what  a  wounded  spirit  would  impart." 

Beyond  the  fence,  and  near  the  spring  lawn  gate, 

Leeona  paused,  the  speaker's  steps  to  wait. 

With  timid  mein,  and  from  the  other  side, 

Now  Rodney  leans,  where  blossomed  vines  divide, 


140  NOT  A  MAN, 

And  gathers  words  with  anxious  haste  to  tell, 
The  blushing  beauty  that  he  loves  her  well. 
She  answers  with  a  sigh,  and  turns  away, 
And  with  her  straggling  locks  begins  to  play, 
Looks  up  again  to  speak,  and  only  sighs, 
Eut  dazzles  wite  the  language  of  her  eyes. 
Then  Rodney  sighs,  and  leans,  her  hand  to  reach 
And  press,  that  he  may  aid  his  fait' ring  speech. 
Her  fingers  touch  him  with  a  conquering  thrill, 
Her  eyes  could  wound,  her  timid  touch  can  kill. 
He  murmured  something,  what,  no  mortal  knew, 
And  pressed  the  gate  ajar,  and  stumbled  thro' ; 
And  as  Leeona  sauntered  slow  away, 
He  whispered,  but  unheard,  "Oh !  angel,  stay  !" 
"'  Oh,  moon,  speed  on  thy  coming,"  then  he  said, 
As  blushing  light  beheld  the  tall  slow  maid, 
Walk  from  the  boughs,  towards  the  mansion  rise, 
And  flash  around  her  over-pow'ring  eyes. 

Now  Rodney's  soul  fair  realms  of  pleasure  knew, 
And  Time's  face  brightened  as  he  onward  flew. 
All  sights  to  him  from  sadness  uo'.v  awake, 
For  him  the  forests  into  music  break, 
Thoughts  of  Leeona  speed  the  moments  by, 
And  they  with  pleasure  lighten  as  they  fly. 
His  life  was  now  a  dream,  in  which  care  lay 
Like  labor's  slumb'rous  body,  when  the  day 
To  night,  and  rest  and  lulling  sounds  gives  way. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  141 

Thus  many  a  day  his  burden  down  he  threw, 

And  half  the  pangs  of  slav'ry  never  knew. 

And  thus  it  is,  love  hath  a  charm  for  life, 

Whate'er  the  station,  and  whate'er  the  strife. 

Where'er  we  roam,  where'er  our  lot  be  cast, 

In  home's  sweet  shine,  or  in  the  raving  blast, 

Love  to  the  soul  a  ray  of  light  doth  bring, 

And  scatter  pleasures  from  his  hopeful  wing. 

His  advent  lights  up  e'en  the  slave's  poor  shed, 

And  sweetens  humble  labor's  daily  bread. 

Without  thee,  Love,  what  were  the  shepherd's  reed? 

Without  thy  blessings  what  the  flow'ry  mead? 

From  thy  rapt  fountain  patriotism  flows, 

In  thy  fair  province  tall  ambition  grows, 

Proud  aspirations  lean  toward  the  skies, 

And  hight  on  hight  great  emulations  rise. 

Tho'  fortune  smile  in  some  voluptous  land, 

Tho'  fame  weave  laurels  with  a  lavish  hand, 

The  homely  swain  of  Scotia's  thatch-built  shed, 

Pines  for  his  frugal  meal  of  milk  and  bread, 

Longs  for  his  oaten  tune  and  herded  vales, 

His  shouting  harvests  and  echoing  flails. 

And  why  ?  because  sweet  love  can  make  him  yearn 

For  early  friendships,  and  his  native  bourne. 

Some  Sylvia  charms  the  rustic's  lowly  dell, 
The  water  sweetens  from  his  native  well, 
The  hills  ennobles  on  his  happy  view, 


142  NOT  A  MAN, 

His  even  plains  with  fresh  delights  doth  strew; 
The  rough  face  brightens  of  his  daily  care, 
With  satisfaction  crowns  his  scanty  fare, 
Pours  pleasures  in  the  lap  of  lusty  toil, 
And  forces  plenty  from  the  stubborn  soil. 
To  him,  no  hills  above  his  own  arise, 
No  vales  so  pleasant  meet  his  ravished  eyes, 
And  clouds  so  peaceful  soften  no  serener  skies. 
To  him  no  waters  like  the  faifhful  rill, 
That  murmurs  by  his  cot  beneath  tee  hill, 
No  tune  so  charming  as  his  highland  air, 
No  flocks  so  even,  and  no  lambs  so  fair. 
To  him  no  land  at  all,  no  world  besides 
The  world  of  love,  that  in  his  heart  abides. 
See  where  yon  hero  drives  his  way  to  war, 
With  Feast  or  Famine  harnessed  to  his  car. 
O'er  crumbled  thrones,  his  flaming  prowess  lead  , 
And  at  his  wheels  imploring  Commerce  bleeds ! 
Some  Cleopatra  names  the  war-doomed  lands, 
And  thrusts  the  torch  of  battle  in  his  hand. 

Night  after  night  our  lovers  met  and  parted ; 
Night  after  night  they  grew  more  aching  hearted, 
Took  moonlight  rambles  in  the  secret  shade, 
Wider  and  wider  their  excursions  made, 
And  ev'ry  night  longer  and  longer  stayed. 
Oft  arm-in-arm,  with  child-like  dalliance,  they, 
Aud  devious  eyes,  pursue  their  lonely  way, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  1 43 

Or  turn  aside  beneath  the  arching  groves, 
In  scented  nooks,  to  prattle  o'er  their  loves; 
Till  smiling  thro'  the  drowsy  branches  bright 
And  peaceful,  a  late  moon  bids  them  "good  night." 

Again  the  shades  of  night  were  falling  round, 

Tnd  every  hilltop  now  a  speech  had  found, 

When  lost  in  bliss,  the  lovers  met  the  moon, 

Beyond  their  wonted  rambles;  but  there  soon 

A  crouching  fury,  who  had  scanned  their  walks 

And  drunk  the  whispers  of  their  secret  talks, 

A  master  who  can  dare  fordid  their  loves — 

Flies  on  them  like  a  hawk  on  thoughtless  doves. 

JLeeona,  clasping  Rodney,  starts  and  cries, 

And  Aylor  hard  to  tear  her  from  him  tries; 

Till  Rodney's  hand  with  warning  aspect  laid 

Upon  his  shoulder,  his  hot  rage  allayed. 

The  shud'ring  winds  bore  Aylor's  threats  around, 

The  groves  their  bosoms  hushed  to  catch  the  sound, 

But  Rodney  led  his  gentle  Ona  on, 

And  with  her  stood  the  threshold  safe  upon. 

Now  to  her  room,  Leeona  sauntered  slowly, 
A  dim  light  on  her  table  flick'ring  lowly — 
And  sat  awhile  to  ponder  her  sad  heart; 
A  locket,  gift  from  Rodney,  took  apart, 
Looked  on  his  picture,  held  it  to  her  breast, 
And  with  a  sad,  sad  heart,  assayed  to  rest. 


144  NOT  A  MANJ 

Her  light  gone  out,  the  room  was  dark,  except 

That  thro'  her  lattice  a  shy  moon  beam  crept 

And  looked  into  her  troubled  face,  but  fair, 

That  now  upturned  was  still  in  fervent  prayer. 

She  knew  not  that  her  faithful  Rodney,  near 

The  wall  beneath,  her  lightest  word  could  hear, 

As  thus  she  prayed:  "  Out  of  the  storm,  Oh,  Lord ! 

Thou  wilt  bring  shine  to  those  who  trust  Thy  word  I 

If  draughts  of  bitter  grief  must  first  be  ta'en, 

Oh  !  Thou  dost  fill  with  brimming  joys  again  ! 

Now  in  whatever  land  my  Rodney  mourn, 

Or  'mid  whatever  trials  he  sojourn, 

Like  walls  of  strength  around  him,  Oh,  Thou  King 

Of  Saints  Thy  mighty  arms  of  succor  fling  !  " 

Lo  !  Rodney  answers:     "O,  my  Ona,  dear, 

If  thou  dost  pray,  I  know  the  Lord  will  hear!" 

Now  to  her  feet  the  Creole  bounds, 

On  tip-toe  to  the  window  steals, 

Where  blossomed  vines  her  form    conceals; 

But  clank  of  chains,  and  bay  of  hounds, 

Stentorian  oaths,  and  raving  sounds, 

Burst  on  her  ear,  and  freeze  her  speech, 

Ere  yet  her  words  can  Rodney  reach. 

Now  thronged  about  by  twenty  men, 
And  savage  bloodhounds,  nine  or  ten, 
That  howl  with  rage,  and  gnaw  and  bay, 
Like  demons  that  from  Tophet  stray, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  145 

Thro'  nether  worlds  to  wing  their  way. 

Rodney,  with  irons  loaded,  she 

Must  turn  away,  or  bear  to  see. 

But  as  she  turns,  the  hounds  appear,  • 

And  in  their  deep  jaws  Rodney  tear. 

Unarmed  he  falls,  with  pain  he  groans, 

A  gust  of  loud  oaths  mocks  his  moans, 

While  human  monsters  gather  round, 

And  fierce  dogs  drag  him  o'er  the  ground, 

Till  he  in  cords  of  hemp  is  bound. 

"  Oh  ,  save  !  "  gasped  Ona,  as  she, -poor 

Sweet  child,  sank  swooning  on  the  floor. 

A  moment  there,  a  fair  corpse  seemed, 

As  in  her  face  the  sad  moon  beamed; 

Then  frantic  rose,  and  down  stairs  flew, 

And  on  her  lover's  bosom  threw 

Her  wild  sweet  form,  his  stout  neck  drew 

In  her  soft  arms,  and  her  cheeks  fair 

Nestled  on  his,  and  with  her  streaming  hair, 

Covered  his  bleeding  shoulders  that  lay  bare. 

And  this  is  Siav'ry !  the  wise  faced  creed, 
That  stretched  a  helping  hand  to  Afric's  need. 
The  holy  Institution  that  was  bound 
To  raise  the  heathen,  tho'  the  Heavens  frowned  I 
Ah !  this  was  what  a  righteous  Nation  heard 
Pray  in  her  temples,  and  expound  the  Word. 
This  was  Creation's  good  Samaritan, 


NOT  A   MAN, 

And  poor  old  Afric  was  the  thief-torn  man. 
Oh,  who  has  not  the  dear  good  shepherd  seen, 
Stand  Moses-like,  God  and  His  hosts  between, 
Bless  Slavery  as  a  child  from  Heaven  born, 
Since  Joseph  was  from  poor  old  Jacob  torn; 
Watch  ever  sleepless,  o'er  his  peaceful  fold, 
Unawed  by  dangers,  uninduced  by  gold, 
And  weep  if  one  poor  lamb  from  shelter  cries  ? 
That  is,  one  white  lamb;  if  black,  shut  his  eyes. 
Ah !  Young  America,  for  God's  sake,  pause, 
Hast  thou  such  preachers,  and  hast  thou  such  laws  ? 

With  ruffian  hands,  the  maid  was  to  her  room 

Forced  hurriedly,  and  shut  within  its  gloom. 

Sad  as  the  evening  star's  last  glim'ring  ray, 

Now  from  a  swoon,  pale  Ona  crept  and  lay 

Half  conscious,  till  the  night  had  far  away 

Towards  the  morning  sped. 

Wild  phantoms  wandered  thro'  her  fevered  brain, 

Sweet  slumber  from  her  eyes  its  flight  had  ta'en, 

And  fainting  hope  had  fled ; 

When  in  night's  silent  depths  she  heard  a  sound, 

As  of  shy  footfalls,  that  on  tip-toe,  wound 

Along  the  mansion's  stairs,  now  quick  and  low, 

And  now  hesitatingly  slow. 

Then  all  was  still,  save  that  she  heard 

Upon  the  roof,  light  boughs  that  stirred, 

And  clasp'd  at  winds,  that  with  them  played, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  147 

And  off  in  outer  stillness  strayed. 
Again  the  cautious  sounds  revived, 
And  stood  there  motionless  as  death, 
Till  borne  upon  a  husky  breath. 
This  sentence  thro'  the  key  hole  blew: 
•"  Git  up,  my  child,  Ise  cum  fur  you  !  " 
'Twas  "Aunt  Ameriky," — she  knew — 
She  bounded  up,  she  followed  fast 
Her  sable  guide,  who  hurried  past 
Her  master's  door  with  breathless  ease, 
And  stood  beneath  the  silent  trees. 

Then  thus,  low  spake  the  good  old  guide, 
41  In  yonder  room  is  Rodney  tied, 
Where  stands  a  locust  on  dis  side. 
De  white  folks  sell  him  in  de  morn, 
An  he'll  be  left  yer,  shore's  yer  born, 
Go  see  him  gal,  bid  him  farwell, 
An'  tell  him  what  yers  got  to  tell. 
An'  I'll  stand  here  de  outside  by, 
An'  keep  watchout  wid  open  eye." 
Now  near  this  room — a  prison  made 
In  which  to  keep  slaves  till  conveyed 
Into  their  buyer's  custody — 
ieeona  stole  on  cautiously. 

Where  thro'  a  crevice  in  the  wall, 
A  late  moon  lighted  up  his  thrall, 


148  NOT    A  MAN, 

The  pale  maid  saw  her  lover  lie, 
And  called  him  with  a  burning  sigh. 
He  answers:   "  Ah !  is  that  my  dove  ?  " 
And  she,  "  Oh,  have  they  bound  you,  love  ?  " 

The  ebon  angel  of  the  night, 

Now  flew  away  and  out  of  sight, 

But  soon  returned  with  keys  in  hand 

And  knife,  and  giving  this  command  : 

"  Cum  wid  me,  chile  !  "  unlocked  the  room, 

And  entering  its  sepulchral  gloom, 

Stooped  to  her  knees  npon  the  floor, 

The  knotty  fast'nings  to  explore 

Of  Rodney's  arms;  her  knife  apply, 

And  loosing  him,  let  Ona  fly 

With  outstretched  arms  to  his  embrace. 

Lean  on  his  breast  and  look  into  his  face. 

A  moment  passed,  and  drinking  Ona's  sighs, 

The  proud  slave  stood,  while  with  his  downward  eyes 

He  caught  the  azure  of  her  tender  gaze, 

And  felt  his  kindling  manhood  all  ablaze. 

"  Naught  have  I  borne  ! "  he  cries,  "  love,  but  for  thee. 

These  bloody  tokens  of  the  truth,  oh,  see  ! 

Would  I  could  Northward  fly  and  now  be  free ! 

But  where  thou  art  not,  all  is  bondage  dire. 

I'm  free  in  chains,  if  I  but  in  the  fire 

Of  thy  sweet  eyes,  may  feel  my  heart  inspire. 


AND  YET    A  MAN.  149 

I  now  could  arm,  and  would  at  once  assay, 
The  vile  destroyer  of  my  joys  to  slay; 
But  then  the  law  would  drive  me  from  thy  sight, 
Then  day  were  darkness  in  my  soul's  long  night." 

Now  thus  Leeona,  gazing  in  the  moon, 

"  Haste,  Rodney,  lo,  the  day  will  open  soon  ! 

Hie  to  the  cave,  on  yonder  side  extreme 

Of  that  vast  wood,  where  not  the  staunchest  beam 

Of  potent  noon  can  thy  dark  seat  invade; 

Keep  hid  by  day,  by  night  explore  the  shade. 

There  we  shall  meet.     I'll  there  late  rambles  take, 

And  come  to  thee.     The  signal  I  will  make 

Is  a  low  song,  when  there's  no  danger  nigh, 

Then  we  will  walk ;  but  hark,  a  footstep,  fly ! 

Nay,  come  now  dearest  to  this  further  shade, 

Where  our  light  converse  may  not  be  betrayed. 

Tread  lightly,  ah !  speak  low,  for  now  I  fear 

Suspicion  walks  abroad,  with  open  ear 

On  night's  still  lips.     Haste,  Rodney,  come  away  ! 

Still !  there,  thy  heart  unburden,  make  no  delay. 

List !  hush  !  a  hoof,  'tis — no — my  beating  heart; 

That  night  bird,  hark  how  lonely !  Oh,  I  start  ! 

For  now  methinks  his  note  doth  omens  bring 

Of  sadness,  all  my  poor  heart  saddening." 

No  evening  shepherd  ever  tuned  a  lay, 

Of  sweeter  accent,  down  his  mountain  way 

Homeward  returning  at  the  close  of  day, 


150  NOT  A   MAN, 

Than  Rodney's  speech  was  in  Leeona's  ears, 
Till  in  the  hall  a  certain  step  she  hears. 

His  arms  once  more  round  'Ona  Rodney  flings. 

And  sudden  freedom  to  his  flight  lends  wings, 

Towards  the  cave  he  turns  his  flying  face, 

This  way  and  that,  and  leaps  at  every  pace, 

To  keep  up  with  imagination's  feet, 

That  brush  by  him  in  noiseless  retreat. 

The  cave  is  reached,  and  wide  apartments  foundr 

With  easy  access,  hollowed  in  the  ground. 

And  ent'ring  slow,  now  Rodney  feels  around, 

Finds  shelves  of  stone,  and  seats  and  beds  of  stone, 

But  windows,  attics,  and  piazzas,  none. 

Meanwhile  Leeona,  noiseless  as  a  sprite, 

Flies  thro'  the  halls,  and  up  the  ancient  flight 

Back  to  her  room,  and  softly  sinks  to  rest, 

Till  morn  shall  chase  the  darkness  towards  the  West. 

'Mid  all  the  jars  that  shook  the  Aylor  seat, 

And  hot  suspicions,  Rodney's  dark  retreat 

Was  ne'er  discovered ;  and  Leeona  true 

As  only  woman  can  be,  'scaping  thro' 

The  darkness,  met  him  oft,  and  took  him  food, 

And  gave  him  comfort  in  the  dismal  wood. 

Of  how  she  met  him,  cheered  him  ;  noble  slave  I 

And  lighted  up  the  dungeon  of  his  cave, 

And  with  him  walked  thro'  moonlight  rambles  long, 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 

Cannot  be  painted  in  our  faithful  song. 

Elijah,  fed  by  ravens,  it  would  seem, 

Might  have  thought  all  the  world  a  monstrous  dream ; 

And  Peter  seeing  wild  beasts  in  a  sheet 

Tied  up,  and  angel's  crying  "slay  and  eat," 

May  have  been  awed  at  his  supply  of  meat. 

But  what  must  he  have  thought,  who  chased  by  men 

And  hounds,  from  human  sight  into  a  den, 

The  angel  of  his  love  found  stooping  there, 

Him  to  refresh,  and  his  abode  to  share  ? 


152  NOT  A  MAN, 


PLIGHT  OF  LEBONA. 

In  bloom  gemm'd  depths,  where  Sylvan  branches  meet 
Above  dim  paths,  that  thread  a  still  retreat;  • 
Where  light  on  tip-toe  shy,  steals  o'er  your  path, 
Like  some  chaste  maid  unrobing  at  the  bath; 
There  where  old  warrior  pines  on  high  doth  tower, 
In  fashion  quaint  is  built  the  Aylor  bower. 
Here  'Ona  now  a  noon  excursion  made, 
And  wandered  peaceful  thro'  the  silent  shade. 
There,  as  she  went,  and  could  not  turn  nor  stay, 
But  ling'ringly  pursued  her  lonely  way, 
And  gazed  into  the  song-stirred  woods  beyond, 
She  stooped  to  raise  a  wayside  flow'r  with  fond 
And  gentle  touch,  and  with  a  sweet  look  try 
To  coax  the  timid  azure  from  its  eye. 
And  now  she  turns  upon  a  mossy  seat, 
Where  sings  a  fern-bound  stream  beneath  her  feet, 
And  breathes  the  orange  on  the  swooning  air; 
Where  in  her  queenly  pride  the  rose  blooms  fair, 
And  sweet  geranium  waves  her  scented  hair; 
There,  gazing  in  the  bright  face  of  the  stream; 
Her  thoughts  swim  onward  in  a  gentle  dream. 

Now,  restless  Aylor  parts  this  dense  retreat, 
And  'Ona  finds  reclining,  fast  asleep; 


AND  YET  A    MAN.  153 

While,  save  that  one  lone  bird  doth  chirping  peep, 
There's  not  a  sound  to  raise  its  little  feet 
Within  the  stooping  boughs — the  very  air 
Seems  half  afraid  to  breathe  upon  her  there !     / 
And  water  lilies,  prattling  in  the  stream, 
With  speech  subdued,  enchanted  list'ners  seem. 
Leeona's  long  locks  round  her  slim  waist  meet, 
The  bright  waves  leap  and  sigh  to  kiss  her  feet, 
While  her  reluctant  breasts  to  view  disclose 
The  lovely  hues  of  life's  serenest  rose; 
And  timid  rising,  like  twin  moons  do  seem, 
Just  o'er  the  woody  marge  of  some  still  stream. 

Low  Aylor  peers  the  arching  boughs  beneath, 

Lust  heaves  his  bosom  and  compels  his  breath, 

While  thus  he  ponders,  on  his  raving  breast, 

His  hand  in  trembling  indecision  prest: 

41  I'll  nearer  steal,  but  then  she  might  awake ! 

Oh,  in  these  boughs  I'll  stand,  till  mine  eyes  take 

Their  feast  of  gaze  !  Ah !  what  a  beauty  she  1 

My  soul  is  drowning  in  a  boundless  sea 

Of  what  I  can't  express  !     And  she  is  mine ! 

My  own  slave  !     No,  Leeona,  no,  I'm  thine  ! 

I'll  be  thy  slave,  and  thou  my  wife — my — no  ! 

There's  negro  in  her  veins !     'Twould  never  do  ! 

What  Saxon  hand  a  negro  wench  would  woo, 

And  let  disgrace  frown  on  him  ?     But  she's  fair  ! 

Her  cheeks,  how  radiant:  ah  !  what  eyes — what  hair  ! 


154  NOT  A  MAN, 

Thou  angel  slave  !  and  mine  !  I'll  nearer  steal, 

And  make  her  while  these  boughs  shall  us  conceal. 

I'll  proffer  her  a  master's  secret  love, 

Protection,  freedom  or  her  heart  I'll  move 

To  confidence  and  yielding  secrecy, 

By  signs  of  stooped  superiority." 

Then,  as  some  rough-armed  hurricane  that  finds 

The  hiding  places  of  the  little  winds, 

Where  insect  horns  their  day  long  music  keep, 

And  starts  zephyrus  in  her  noontide  sleep; 

So,  filled  with  blasty  lusts,  now  Aylor  goes, 

Till  on  the  sleeper  fair  his  footsteps  close. 

And  as  the  fingers  of  a  dream  have  caught 

The  waving  pinions  of  her  free  young  thought, 

She  hears  his  steps,  sleep  blends  them  with  her  dream, 

Till  touch' d,  she  wakes  and  bounds  up  with  a  scream. 

Her  master's  low  entreaties  make  her  worse, 

She  screams  for  aid,  till  screaming  makes  her  hoarse. 

He  grows  more  furious  as  she  him  defies; 

The  helpless  lamb  to  flee  the  lion  tries, 

But  fear  o'ertakes  her  strength,  and  daunts  her  soul. 

Her  senses  reel,  and  reason  yields  control 

To  blank  unconsciousness,  and  what  ensues, 

Refrain  to  ask,  Oh !  man,  withhold  my  muse  ! 

The  bower's  deepest  bosom  saddened  seemed, 
As  innocence's  big  libations  streamed 
Fast  down  Leeona's  pity-suing  cheeks, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  155 

And  her  poor  breaking  heart  gave  vent  to  shrieks; 
And  up  to  sympathizing  Heaven  she  turned 
Her  tear-dimmed  eyes,  that  with  entreaty  burned. 
Oh,  loveliness  thou  radiant  visaged  sprite, 
Thou  lute- voiced  warbler  wooing  to  delight ! 
By  prince  alike,  and  homely  swain  adored, 
By  every  gentleness  of  soul  implored ! 
When  unprotected,  howe'er  cherished  much, 
To  thee  how  blighting  is  the  lewd  hand's  touch, 
E'en  as  the  woodside  flow'ret  plucked  away — 
Torn  from  the  bosom  of  enliv'ning  May — 
Dost  droop  within  the  rough  grasp  of  the  swain, 
Thou  witherest  to  ne'er  revive  again ! 
And  Slavery,  thou  worst  of  all  the  host 
Of  human  ills,  I  loathe,  and  like  thee  most ! 
Thy  name  I  spurn,  thy  grov'ling  aims  I  hate, 
And  all  thy  bitter  creeds  abominate; 
But  like  thee  for  the  daughters  thou  hast  borne, 
The  jewels  that  doth  thy  vile  neck  adorn, 
The  tender  out-growth  of  unholy  deeds, 
The  rich-hued  blossoms  of  offensive  weeds. 

Here,  reader,  lies  a  lab'rynth  on  our  way, 
Thro'  which  perchance  'twould  weary  you  to  stray; 
Or  yet  perhaps  with  some  unwonted  sight, 
Or  sound,  mar  all  thy  bosom's  visions  bright. 
Our  steps,  therefore,  around  it  now  proceed, 
Where  to  remoter  realms  our  lovers  lead. 


156  NOT  A  MAN, 

But  as  we  pass,  there  lingers  on  the  ear, 
A  strong  man's  mournings  for  his  lover  dear. 
For  Rodney  hears  that  his  fair  'Ona's  dead, 
And  sleepless  anguish  bows  his  manly  head, 
The  nightly  forests  hear  his  wand'ring  cries, 
And  with  her  stony  speech  his  cave  replies. 

'Twas  eve  in  Florida  serene  and  bright, 
And  gently  sighed  the  wind  as  sighs  a  maid 
When  watching  in  an  early  moon's  round  light, 
Her  lover's  footsteps  in  the  trysting  shade. 
The  woods  breathed  softly,  and  their  even  breath 
Was  sweet  with  blossoms  of  the  neighb'ring  heath. 
And,  save  the  lonely  note  of  nightingale, 
The  churlish  out-bursts  of  the  farm  boy's  vale, 
The  horn  owl's  shout,  and  swamp  bird's  lone  reply, 
No  evening  sound  disturbed  the  sleepy  sky. 

Now  near  a  dark  and  solemn  wood, 
Close  by  the  Aylor  house  I  stood. 
The  evening  star,  without  a  peer, 
Was  sinking  in  his  mild  career, 
As  sinks  the  warrior  on  his  shield, 
When  vict'ry  holds  a  silent  field, 
And  no  alarum  breaks  his  rest, 
To  build  her  watch  fires  in  his  breast. 
Soon,  as  a  maid  will  half  conceal 
To  show  her  beanty,  then  with  sighs, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  157 

Languishing  looks,  and  yielding  eyes, 
Will  arm  her  sex  with  that  appeal, 
Which  conquers  him  who  dares  to  feel; 
So,  bursting  from  the  wood's  embrace, 
A  moon  in  soft  clouds  dipped  her  face, 
Ascended  then  her  peaceful  throne 
Of  green  hills,  and  supremely  shone. 

I  heard  a  wail  of  woman's  woe; 
Now  loud  it  bursted,  and  now  low, 
Suppressed,  as  if  in  sudden  flow, 
A  hand  had  checked  its  bitter  gush; 
Then  followed  an  expressive  hush, 
\Vhen,  in  the  mansion's  silent  hall 
I  saw  a  female  proud  and  tall, 
Half  covered  in  the  myrtle's  shade, 
Thro'  which  the  moonlight  faintly  strayed. 
Her  long  hair  stream' d  below  her  waist 
In  wild  waves;  and  her  bosom  chaste 
Arose  in  pensive  sweetness,  bare, 
Beneath  a  face  that  pale  with  care, 
Some  monster  trouble  seemed  to  dare. 
Her  eyes  with  sullen  lustre  blazed, 
As  up  in  Heav'n's  still  face  she  gazed, 
And  clasped  an  infc  nt  to  her  breast, 
To  gently  hush  its  sweet  unrest. 
I  nearer  to  the  woman  stole, 
And  lo  !  she  was  the  fair  Creole  ! 


158  NOT  A  MAN 

Por  unobserved,  I  reached  the  hall, 
And  leaned  against  the  shadowed  wall, 
Just  as  the  moon  was  fairly  seen, 
Breaking  white  banks  of  clouds  from  'tween. 

I  heard  the  Creole's  softest  sighs, 

And  saw  her  flash  her  restless  eyes 

Upon  her  rear;  I  now  did  know 

"There  was  concealed  some  dreadful  foe. 

I  looked  upon  her  lovely  form, 

And  felt  my  hurried  blood  run  warm. 

Ah!  she  was  beautiful,  tho'  not 

So  fair  as  lovesick  rhymers  plot, 

Or  whining  prose  mongers  array, 

Along  the  novel's  little  way, 

Through  which  good  sense  doth  never  pass, 

But  where  the  intellectual  ass 

Delights  to  roam,  or  fast  or  slow, 

To  see  the  strange  white  lilies  grow, 

Or  hear  a  big  black  giant  blow  ! 

Ah  !  not  so  fair,  but  a  rich  rose, 

And  brilliant  as  the  stream  that  flows 

From  Summer  hills,  with  meadows  sweet. 

And  dewy  corn-fields  at  their  feet; 

While  bleating  pastures  peaceful  lie, 

Beneath  an  azure  canopy. 

But  hovered  o'er  by  raven-winged  fears, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  159 

Assailing  wrongs  had  dried  her  tears 
In  their  bright  home;  tho',  as  the  rill, 
When  Winter  from  his  cheerless  hill, 
Freezes  the  surface  with  his  breath, 
But  cannot  stop  the  flow  beneath; 
So  her  proud  look  of  beauty  showed 
That  sorrow's  stream  beneath  it  flowed. 

•Oh  !  how  I  wished  I  knew  wherefore 
Her  wrongs,  and  her  distresses  sore  ! 
How  then  I  could  have  met  her  foe, 
And  brought  her  weal,  or  shared  her  woe  ! 
I  raised  my  hands,  I  strove  to  speak, 
But  long  suspense  had  made  me  weak; 
I  could  but  lisp  a  single  word, 
And  that  too  faintly  to  be  heard. 
Then,  ere  I  caught  my  reeling  sense, 
I  would  have  sprung  to  her  defense, 
But  horror  froze  my  sluggish  blood, 
And  I  aghast  in  silence  stood. 
A  whisper  low  breathed  thro'  the  hall, 
And  then  there  came  a  quick  footfall. 
Leeona  flashed  a  hurried  eye, 
And  "  Oh,  my  Rodney  ! "  then  did  cry, 
And  to  his  brave  arms  weeping  fly. 
A  moment  clasped  in  love  they  stood; 
Then  he  looked  round  in  sullen  mood, 
As  calm  as  night,  but  stern  as  death, 


l6o  NOT  A  MAN, 

Resentment  warming  every  breath, 
And  "fly,  Leeona  !  "  quickly  gasped, 
And  to  his  lips  her  small  hand  clasp'd. 
"They're  on  us  now,  and  soon  we'll  be 
Beyond  the  reach  of  Liberty." 

"Hush !  there  they  come  !  can't  you  hear 
Their  angry  footsteps  hurrying  near  ? 
Wait  not  a  moment  to  be  gone, 
By  Heaven  aided  fly  alone  ! 
I'll  meet,  and  hold  them  here  at  bay, 
Or  stain  with  blood  their  fiendish  way." 
I  strove  now  but  could  not  withdraw, 
Nor  look,  nor  shut  my  eyes  for  awe. 
A  hurried  sigh,  a  sob  suppressed, 
Escaped  Leeona's  noble  breast. 
All  earth  to  her  was  in  her  arms, 
And  she  could  tread  on  Scorpion  harms, 
While  this  firm  purpose  swelled  her  heart- 
To  live  not  from  her  babe  apart. 
Now  wild  as  the  wild  cat'ract  moans, 
Thro'  deep  shades  and  replying  stones, 
The  murmur  from  her  bosom  rose: 
"God  save  my  Etta  from  her  foes  ! " 
Then  on  her  shoulder  swinging  straight, 
The  thoughtless  infant's  little  weight, 
Forth  from  the  mansion's  hall  she  stole, 
Like  hope's  last  vision  from  the  soul. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  1 6 1 

Her  lips  were  clenched,  her  dark  eyes  staid, 
Her  brow  was  knit  and  arched  with  shade, 
To  Heaven's  arms  she  looked  for  help, 
And  fearless  as  the  lion's  whelp, 
Was  winding  thro'  the  silent  grove, 
With  no  cheer  but  the  moon  above. 
.Now  fast  and  faster  onward  flew, 
'Till  indistinct  upon  the  view, 
She  seemed  a  shadow,  then  was  seen 
No  more  the  darkling  trees  between. 

Now  in  the  dismal  mansion  roared 
A  storm  of  heavy  steps  that  poured 
From  aisle  to  aisle,  and  hall  to  hall, 
As  if  loud  tongues  in  every  wall 
Were  loosed  upon  the  night  to  call. 
'The  current  foamed  towards  the  door, 
From  which  had  fled  the  Creole  poor, 
And  o'er  the  voices  of  the  crowd 
One  great  grum  throat  was  heard  aloud, 
.Like  a  crack' d  trumpet  madly  blown, 
Or  like  a  fierce  boar's  sally  groan. 
""  Let  loose  the  hounds  upon  her  track, 
Go,  villians  !  Speed  and  bring  her  back  I 
Or  leave  her  torn  upon  your  way, 
And  on  her  flesh  let  vultures  prey  ! " 

Now  Aylor  ceased,  and  his  dread  form, 


1 62  NOT   A   MAN, 

Peerless  in  terror,  issued  forth, 
As  wrathful  as  the  dark  browed  storm 
That  shuts  the  doorway  of  the  Northr 
And  drapes  the  eagle's  palace  bright, 
In  curtains  of  the  misty  night. 
Then  grum  as  some  old  Indian  kingr 
He  strode  among  the  gaping  throng 
Till  like  a  Champion  of  the  ring 
Of  loud  Olympus,  stern  and  strong, 
Of  matchless  port,  and  manner  proud,, 
He  rose  above  the  gaping  crowd 
Of  men  and  dogs,  and  shook  his  hair. 
Dread  silence  seized  the  trembling  air, 
Dumb  terror  made  his  minions  quake, 
Their  knees  to  smite,  their  fingers  shake, 
And  dogs  beneath  his  nod  and  scowl, 
Began  to  gnaw  their  chains  and  howl. 

The  chains  are  loosed,  and  at  a  smack, 

Away  fierce  yelping  fly  the  pack. 

Their  deep,  loud  throats  in  full  chase  break. 

The  darkling  woods  responsive  speak, 

And  far  off  hills  from  slumbers  wake. 

The  very  night  shades  seem  to  fly, 

And  dance  and  flutter  on  the  eye; 

For  dreadful  sight  is  it  to  see, 

A  woman  from  swift  bloodhounds  flee. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  163 

Then  like  some  lion,  when  loud  dogs  invade, 
That  flies  ferocious  from  his  roaring  shade, 
His  bristling  kindred  scatters  from  his  path, 
And  shakes  the  forests  in  his  lordly  wrath; 
So  now  brave  Rodney  from  his  cover  springs, 
And  right  and  left  her  loud  pursuers  flings. 
These  at  him  stare  with  trembling  fears  oppresty 
He  plucks  a  dagger  from  his  heaving  breast, 
Displays  the  ghastly  warning  to  their  eyes, 
And  in  pursuit  of  hounds  and  Creole  flies. 

Ah  !  ye  whose  eyes  with  pity  doth  run  o'er,    . 
When  mournful  tales  come  from  a  heathen  shore,. 
Of  babes  by  mothers  thrown  to  crocodile; 
The  scaly  terror  of  the  languid  Nile; 
Of  Brahma's  car  and  Islam's  wanton  rites, 
And  bloody  raids  on  Zion's  sacred  hights  ! 
Ye  who  hear  these  and  pray  for  God  to  comer 
Behold  yon  mother  fleeing  from  her  home ! 
A  master's  child  upon  her  frantic  breast, 
And  by  a  master's  savage  bloodhounds  prest; 
And  this,  too,  where  in  every  steepled  town, 
The  crucifix  on  human  wrong  looks  down  ! 
Think  then  no  more  of  heathen  lands  to  rave, 
While  in  America  there  breathes  a  slave  !       '<•> 

Rodney  pursues,  and  where  the  sickened  moon 
Looks  thro'  the  woods,  comes  on  the  Creole  soon. 


264  NOT  A  MAN, 

The  angry  hounds  have  overta'en  their  prey, 
.And  round  Leeona,  madly  mingling,  bay. 
Deep  thro'  the  wastes  their  fiendish  voices  ring, 
Fierce  with  their  tongues,  wood,  plain  and  hillock  sing; 
And  now  they  close  upon  her,  thick  around ; 
Ah  !  God,  they  seize  and  drag  her  to  the  ground  ! 
Lo  !  Rodney  nears,    he  hears  his  'Ona's  cries, 
Right  on  the  hounds  with  flashing  steel  he  flies  ; 
They  on  him  furious  turn,  with  eyes  that  glare 
Like  furies'  fell,  jaws  gaping,  and  teeth  bare ; 
This  one  and  that  he  seizes  as  they  lunge 
Upon  him,  and  their  dread  fangs  in  him  plunge. 
Deep  thro'  their  reeking  sides  his  blade  he  drives, 
They  reel  away  and  empty  out  their  lives ; 
Till  with  their  warm  blood  dropping  from  his  hands, 
He  master  of  the  situation  stands ! 

Ah !  ye  whose  hearts  with  swifter  currents  beat, 

When  fabled  gods  in  equal  combat  meet, 

Shout  loud  the  challenge,  swing  their  shields  immense, 

While  armies  hang  around  in  dread  suspense, 

Lift  their  vast  lances,  like  the  lightnings  driven, 

Jar  all  the  plain  and  shake  the  vault  of  heaven ; 

Behold  this  hero  of  the  real  fight, 

This  man  who  dares  the  wiles  of  swampy  night ; 

Whose  fearless  bosom,  lit  with  valor's  fire, 

Withstands  the  monster  bloodhound  in  his  ire ; 

Whose  faithful  heart  to  love's  first  impulse  true 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  165 

Will  dare  to  suffer  and  is  brave  to  do. 

Now  Rodney  listens,  his  surrounding  views, 
And  thro'  the  pines  his  dismal  way  pursues. 
Leeona  follows  on  his  journey  dark, 
Where  night-owls  laugh  and  wary  foxes  bark ; 
Till  thro'  the  branches  op'ning  day's  in  sight, 
With  rosy  smiles  and  locks  of  streaming  light. 

We  wander  now  in  grasses  long  and  damp, 

O'er  oozy  mosses  of  a  dismal  swamp, 

Thro'  languid  brakes,  and  under  monster  trees, 

Thro'  whose  vine  loaded  boughs  noon  never  sees. 

Here  nature  sleeps  her  long,  long  torpid  nap 

In  silence,  on  the  Tropic's  tangled  lap ; 

Here  yellow  streams  with  lazy  murmurs  creep 

On  slowly,  talking  in  their  sluggish  sleep; 

Here  hideous  reptiles  in  their  slimy  reign 

Crawl  aimless  ever,  and  an  apish  train 

Of  forest  hoodlums  day  long  orgies  hold ; 

And  birds,  although  their  plumage  gleam  with  gold,. 

And  divers  colors,  sing  not ;  in  this  wood, 

This  habitation  of  dark  solitude, 

Our  lovers,  for  their  lives  escaping,  fly 

Into  the  arms  of  dismal  safety. 

The  scaly  venom  of  the  pathless  brakes 

About  them  here  a  sure  protection  makes, 

For  who  will  dare  the  danger  of  the  bogs? 


l66  NOT  A  MAN, 

And  here  is  crocodile  a  match  for  dogs. 

Here  hope  our  lovers  found, 

And  love  about  them  wound 

Her  silver  cords  the  tighter ; 

As  fears  vanish' d  away, 

And  they  from  day  to  day 

Felt  life's  burdens  grow  lighter. 

Ona  saw  Rodney's  manhood,  he 

Her  fortitude  and  constancy ; 

Thus,  each  could  in  the  other  see 

Enough  to  keep  the  loving  eye 

With  pleasures  running  over. 

As  Eve  and  Adam,  innocent 

Wtihin  the  charms  of  Eden  went, 

And  nothing  of  the  wide  world  knew, 

Save  what  lay  just  betwixt  the  two ; 

So  wandered  these,  the  wild  shade  thro', 

Lover  absorbed  in  lover. 

Far  from  their  home  within  the  wood, 
Once  Rodney  went  to  search  for  food, 
And  ready  make,  for  he  next  day 
Must  toward  the  North  Star  take  his  way. 
Leeona  biding,  sandals  knit 
Of  fibres  from  the  cypress  split, 
A  basket  rude  of  willows  wove, 
And  gathered  fruits  within  the  grove. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  1 67 

Thus  wand'ring  round,  she  missed  her  track, 
And  lost,  could  not  her  way  find  back. 
At  last  despairing,  sad  she  stood, 
Then  on  her  devious  way  pursued, 

The  sun  upon  his  western  way, 
Had  nearly  reached  the  verge  of  day, 
Baptizing  in  his  orange  sheen 
The  lofty  groves  of  cypress  green  ; 
When  in  the  swamp  grass,  long  and  dank, 
Leeona  reached  some  bayou's  bank. 
Lo !  all  around  was  strange  and  lone, 
And  silence  on  her  dismal  throne 
Held  her  dark  sway  in  every  nook ; 
Save  that  one  swamp  bird  yonder,  shook 
A  mournful  noise  from  his  throat, 
That  sounded  something  like  a  note ; 
And  that  one  tiny  wren  did  say 
Some  feeble  things  anear  her  way, 
Scarce  able  when  it  flew  to  shake  a  spray. 

Leeona  turned  to  scan  the  wood, 
When  lo !  beyond  her  scarce  a  rood, 
A  horrid  human  form  she  viewed ! 
A  tall  old  man  in  skins  half  guized, 
Half  savage  and  half  civilized, 
With  a  great  cudgel  in  his  hand, 
Towards  her  gazing  still  did  stand. 


1 68  NOT  A   MAN, 

About  his  waist  a  leathern  thong 
Bound  his  long  locks,  they  were  so  long. 
Uncombed  and  matted  close  they  lay, 
And  age's  touch  had  made  them  gray. 
His  gaunt  arms  were  of  monstrous  length.. 
The  ghastly  signs  of  wasted  strength. 
"  Ah  !  "  Ona  sighed,   "  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 
And,  as  she  thought,  unseen,  withdrew ; 
But  slow  the  ghostly  hermit  stalked 
Around  her  hiding-place,  then  walked 
Straight  in  the  bush  to  where  she  lay 
Breathless,  stood  squarely  in  the  way, 
Swung  his  great  cudgel  round  and  round, 
Chattered  and  gnashed,  and  stamped  the  ground. 
Rolled  his  wild  eyes,  growled  like  a  bear, 
And  thrust  his  fingers  in  his  hair. 

A  true  heroine  of  the  cypress  gloom, 

Now  there  to  lie,  the  Creole  saw  her  doom — 

A  reckless  madman  had  her  in  his  hand — 

She  sprang  up,  and  did  at  his  eUDOw  stand, 

And  cried  out,   "  Look  sir,  see  my  pretty  child  !  '* 

At  this,  the  raving  specter  grimly  smiled, 

Let  fall  his  cudgel,  muttered  some  strange  speech., 

And  for  the  babe  his  dreadful  claws  did  reach. 

"  Have  you  seen  Nanawauea  ?  "  then  he  cried, 

•'  She  died  long  time  ago,  and  then  I  died ; 

Who  wrongs  the  red  man,  wrongs  the  race  of  man  ~ 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  T  6c> 

You  hurt  my  wigwam  now,  sir,  if  you  can  !  " 
Leeona  answered,  pointing  him  away, 
For  no  auspicious  moment  long  will  stay: 
"  Your  Nanawawa  lives  in  yonder  glen, 
Make  haste  and  find  her — come  and  tell  me  then.'" 
Now  both  hands  in  his  hair  the  madman  threw, 
Dashed  off  and  laughed,  and  gibbered  as  he  flew. 
"  Dark  mystery,"  Leeona  leaving,  said, 
"  Hath  in  that  human  waste  her  mansion  made ! 
Ah  !  now  within  his  once  love-lighted  breast, 
The  owly  phantom  builds  her  broody  nest. 
And  that  high  seat  where  wisdom  once  did|dwell, 
Is  now  inhabited  by  visions  fell, 
And  recollections  harrassing,  among 
Which,  a  dreadful  secret  holds  her  tongue ! 
And  '  Nanawawa;'  love-balmed  name  survives — 
Above  that  heap  of  mental  ruins  lies  ! 
Poor  wretch,  unconscious  of  existence  save 
With  the  loved  dead,  thinks  he's  beyond  the  grave! 
;  Who  wrongs  the  red  man.'     Why  he  speaks  of  wrongs, 
To  that  the  secret  of  his  words  belongs ; 
Wrong!  wrong!      Yea  wrong!     We  all  that  monster  know, 
The  blight  and  bane  of  earth,  and  source  of  woe ! 

Now  Rodney's  voice  and  heavy  footsteps  broke 
Upon  the  Creole's  ear,  as  thus  he  spoke: 
"  Leeona,  here  am  I !     What  were  those  sounds  ? 
And  what  went  by  me  with  such  dreadful  bounds  ?  " 


1 7°  NOT  A  MAN, 

Leeona  told  him  ;  list'ning  still  he  stood, 
Then  talking  low  they  slowly  left  the  wood, 
Began  their  steps  toward  a  Northern  clime, 
And  looked  on  Florida  for  their  last  time. 


THE  RUNAWAY. 


Awake,  my  muse,  ye  goodly  sights  among, 
The  land  of  Boone  and  Kenton  claims  my  song. 
Thro'  other  scenes  our  lovers  take  their  flight, 
See  where  their  wand' ring. footsteps  pass  in  sight. 
Lo !  where  yon  pleasant  valleys  meet  the  eyes, 
And  goodly  hills  their  forests  lifting  rise  ! 
Here,  as  we  pass,  along  our  cheerful  way, 
Small  farms  adjoining,  stretch  in  green  array. 
And  small  farm  houses,  looking  great  trees  thro/ 
And  neat  dressed  orchards,  dot  th'  enlivened  view ; 
And  their  quaint  roofs  by  Autumn  suns  embrowned, 
With  wind-mills  rude,  and  bird-box  turrets  crowned, 
Look  thro'  the  branchy  elms  and  locusts  high, 
And  send  a  rustic  welcome  to  the  eye. 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 

See  where  yon  flocks  their  even  pastures  browse, 
And  lowing  homeward,  hear  the  sober  cows, 
And  hear  yon  plowman  whistling  as  he  plows. 
Here  circling  plenty  meets  returning  suns, 
And  lucid  cheer  in  ev'ry  valley  runs, 
Loud  satisfaction  fills  the  evening  air, 
And  jovial  comfort  soothes  the  ear  of  care. 

Thrice  hail !  proud  land,  whose  genius  boasts  a  Clay ! 

The  Cicero  of  slavery's  palmy  day, 

The  gifted  champion  of  Compromise, 

Whose  mien  majestic  filled  a  nation's  eyes ; 

And  on  the  eloquence  of  whose  wise  tongue 

A  learned  Senate  in  rapt  silence  hung ; 

A  Senate,  too,  whose  fame  no  one  impugns, 

Of  Websters,  Randolphs,  Marshals  and  Calhouns. 

And  could  a  land  that  boasts  a  mind  like  this — 

That  bord'ring  on  the  clime  of  freedom  is— 

Suffer  a  harlot  with  her  whorings  vile 

To  peacefully  pollute  hergen'rous  soil? 

Yes,  green  Kentucky  with  her  native  pride, 

Proclaiming  trust  in  the  great  Crucified, 

Flaunting  her  prestige  in  the  world's  wide  face, 

Boasting  descent  and  precedence  of  race, 

And  by  the  greatest  of  all  statesmen  led, 

Shared  the  pollutions  of  a  slavish  bed. 

All  o'er  her  fields,  the  blood-hound's  savage  bay 

Pressed  the  poor  sable  trembling  runaway, 


172  NOT  A  MAN, 

And  sometimes  by  the  home  of  Henry  Clay  1 
In  all  her  woods,  the  wail  of  wild  distress 
Was  heard,  as  tattered  starving  wretchedness- 
Fled  in  the  shrieking  wrath  of  wintry  storm  ; 
Wrapping  her  babe  in  rags  to  keep  it  warm  ! 
Can  I  forget  the  tears  a  parent  shed 
When  her  dear  hand  she  placed  upon  my  head, 
And  me  embracing,  tremulously  said : 
"  My  heart  is  sick  whene'er  the  sad  winds  blow, 
And  all  the  ground  is  buried  deep  in  snow, 
For  I  remember,  when  I  was  a  child, 
The  night  was  dark,  the  raving  winds  were  wild, 
The  earth  was  still,  the  snow  lay  deep  and  white,, 
When  at  our  door  there  came  a  footstep  light. 
We  opened,  and  a  strange  black  woman's  face 
Looked  in ;  she  held  a  child  in  her  embrace 
And  said:  "Ize  nearly  froz  to  deaf,  oh  wont 
You  let  me  in  ?     Oh  !  don't  say  no  !     Oh  don't ! " 
She  came  in,  but  before  we  said  a  word, 
Her  master's  voice  was  in  the  quarters  heard ! 
She  knew  the  sound,  her  babe  close  to  her  drew, 
And  back  into  the  wintry  tempest  flew. 
The  morning  came,  and  chilly  miles  away,       ^ 
In  snow  half  hid  the  lifeless  mother  lay  ! 
But  in  her  arms  the  babe  alive  did  sleep, 
And  when  discovered,  woke,  but  did  not  weep ! 
And  lo  !  uncovered  to  the  mournful  light, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  173 

The  mother's  face  was  black — the  babe's  was  white ! " 

I  love  Kentucky  •  tho'  she  merit  scorn 
I  can't  despise  the  land  where  I  was  born. 
Her  name  I  cherish,  and  expect  to  see 
The  day  when  all  her  sons  will  cherish  me. 
Her  many  sins  have  all  in  common  been 
With  other  sisters'  who  their  sins  have  seen. 
Yes,  I  will  pray  for  that  good  time  to  come 
When  I  can  say :   Kentucky  is  my  home. 
And  this  I  now  ask  at  my  country's  hand, 
If  I  must  die  in  some  far  distant  land, 
Then  let  my  countrymen,  when  I  am  dead, 
Where  I  was  born,  make  my  eternal  bed. 

But  here  our  lovers  are  again ; 

Awake,  my  muse,  thy  wonted  strain  ! 

The  hounds  at  day-break  struck  a  trail 

In  deep  Green  River's  lonely  vale, 

And  thro'  the  dusk  of  dewy  morn, 

Echoed  the  hunter's  rousing  horn. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  flew  from  tongue  to  tongue, 

As  to  his  horse  each  rider  sprung. 

A  moment  in  their  saddles  still, 

They  heard  the  baying  on  the  hill 

Not  far  away,  and  full  well  knew 

A  runaway  before  them  flew. 

The  chase  began,  the  horses  dashed 


174  NOT  A  MAN, 

t 

Away,  and  thro'  the  bushes  crashed, 
Like  birds  that  flutter  on  the  wing 
All  thro'  the  wild  copse  scattering. 
Eeach  horseman  pressing  for  the  lead 
Bore  on  and  on,,  with  champing  speed. 
On,  on  and  on,  and  on,  o'er  hills, 
And  winding  valleys,  leaping  rills 
And  fallen  trunks  like  startled  hinds, 
Wild  as  a  flood,  ^as  swift  as  winds. 
The  hounds'  loud  clamor  rolled  and  broke 
Morn's  drowsy  stillness,  and  awoke 
The  sleepy  hills,  that  answered  back 
The  lusty  tonguing  of  the  pack. 
Within  his  quiet  farmhouse  wood, 
The  early  rustic  list'ning  stood, 
The  plowman  whistling  in  his  lane, 
Paused,  listened,  paused  and  paused  again,. 
Surmised,  went  on,  went  on,  surmised, 
And  at  their  loud  speed  stood  surprised; 
As  o'er  his  fences  passing  near, 
He  heard  them  in  their  mad  career. 

Their  loud  tongues  on  the  morning  breeze 

Now  Rodney  heard,  as  if  the  trees 

Were  yearning  in  their  sympathy, 

And  stretched,  and  sighed  and  whispered  "  fly."" 

And  fly  he  did,  and  as  away  he  sped, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  175 

Soon  of  the  pack  a  length'ning  space  ahead ; 
His  nimble  limbs  grown  strong  by  punishment, 
Bore  manly  up  as  on  and  on  he  went. . 
O'er  fences  high,  and  gullies  wide  he  leapt, 
Skimmed  level  fields  and  thro'  the  briars  crept, 
Now  pricked  by  these,  now  by  the  wanton  thorn, 
And  now  by  knotty  bamboos  hung  and  torn. 
His  footsteps  now  had  gained  a  wooded  hight, 
Now  fields  and  houses  all  were  out  of  sight  j 
He  paused  to  listen,  heard  his  heart's  quick  beat, 
And  thought  it  was  the  sound  of  coming  feet. 
Another  instant  and  the  flying  slave, 
Was  trying  if  his  legs  could  well  behave. 
Thro'  pond'rous  woods  and  darkling  shades  he  ran, 
Three  miles  or  more  from  where  his  flight  began, 
Sometimes  along  the  wild  boar's  narrow  way, 
Sometimes  where  hunted  wolves  in  cover  lay. 
He  soon  could  hear  the  fierce  hound  on  his  rear, 
Baying  out  inbred  hate,  and  drawing  near. 
Loud  in  the  distance  angry  signals  wound, 
And  furious  yells  urged  on  the  flying  hound. 
Dread  oaths  were  muttering  on  the  morn's  still  air, 
Enough  to  hush  the  jungle's  roaring  lair. 

Now  Rodney,  bursting  from  the  wood, 
An  instant  on  the  high  bluffs  stood 
And  gazed  upon  Green  River's  flood, 
That  tossed  and  growled  and  rolled  beneath, 


176  NOT  A   MAN, 

Like  torments  in  the  vaults  of  death. 

The  rocks  look'd  down  with  angry  awe, 

And  feeble  shrubs  leant  back  and  saw. 

Few  moments  more  the  worst  must  bring, 

For  now  the  worst  had  poised  its  wing  ! 

The  hounds  are  on  him !     "  Save !  oh  save !  " 

Right  downward  leaping  cries  the  slave, 

But  not  into  a  watery  grave ! 

With  arms  of  steel  he  mounts  the  wave, 

He  grapples  with  the  dizzy  tide, 

Turns  downward,  where  the  cliffs  doth  hide, 

And  then  with  strokes  manful  to  see, 

He  pulls  for  life  and  liberty. 

Meanwhile  the  hounds  have  ceased  to  bay, 

The  hunters  look  and  turn  away, 

And  "  Ah  !  he's  drowned  !  "  all  seem  to  say. 

Three  nights  or  more  curtain  the  skies, 
And  now  we  turn  our  weary  eyes 
To  where  the  Creole  mother  flies. 
Thro'  dangers  led  by  friends  at  night, 
By  day  concealed  from  mortal  sight, 
Thus  far,  secure  has  been  her  flight. 

A  storm  was  low'ring,  and  the  sun  was  low, 
The  Creole's  weary  steps  were  short  and  slow, 
The  air  grew  sightless,  and  the  fields  were  still, 
The  woods  were  restless  on  the  solemn  hill, 


AND  YET  A  MAN,  177 

The  earth  seems  shrinking  from  the  threat'ning  skies, 

As  night  on  rayless  wings  athwart  the  sun's  path  flies. 

All  nature  trembles !     Lo  !  the  cloud-folds  break, 

The  mountains  with  their  thunder-tongues  awake, 

While  livid  lightnings  glare  on  every  peak, 

And  with  their  arms  of  flame,  their  warring  lances  take. 

The  startled  clouds  flee  out  into  the  deep 

Of  troubled  night ;  and  headlong  down  each  steep 

Rush  dizzy  torrents  from  the  flood-drenched  hills, 

And  foam  along  the  overflowing  rills. 

But  hark !  in  all  this  storm  a  woman's  wail ! 

A  mother's  anguish  doth  the  ear  assail ! 

Beneath  yon  beetling  rocks,  oh  raise  thine  eyes, 

To  where  Leeona  lifts  her  tender  cries  ! 

See  now  she  sinks  into  the  cliff's  embrace, 

And  turns  to  heaven  her  entreating  face 

In  tearful  beauty  !     Hark  !  for  help  she  cries ! 

And  thunders  answer  from  the  wrathful  skies ! 

Between  the  surges  of  tumultous  winds, 

Her  cry  a  passage  thro'  the  tempest  finds. 

"  Oh  God  !  my  child  !  my  child  !  "  she  wails  distrest, 

And  clasps  the  tender  sorrow  to  her  breast. 

But  like  the  vaulty  whispers  of  the  tomb, 

Her  words  come  back  from  hollow-throated  night'siudeep 

gloom. 

Oh  !  Heaven,  can'st  thou  thus  be  pitiless, 
And  hear,  unmoved,  the  cry  of  loveliness  ? 


178  NOT  A  MAN. 

Cause  thy  rebellious  winds  to  war  no  more, 
The  loud  disturbers  of  a  nightly  shore  ! 
Ah !  how  the  torrents  now  are  pouring  down, 
They  seem  as  if  the  whole  earth  they  would  drown; 
But  this  last  flood  descending,  hope  creates, 
For  when  it  slackens,  then  the  storm  abates. 

The  rain  has  ceased ;  but  the  belabored  wood 

Yet  waves  and  trembles  in  a  troubled  mood. 

The  frantic  Creole  lifts  a  piercing  cry, 

Hoping  to  rouse  some  woodsman  dwelling  nigh ; 

But  in  the  bluffs  above  her  wolves  reply. 

"  Oh  !  Heaven,"  shrinking  in  the  rock  she  gasps, 

And  in  her  arms  her  infant  tighter  clasps, 

''The  wolves  are  howling,  Ah  !  What  shall  I  do? 

Beset  by  beasts  and  human  monsters  too  ! " 

Then  like  some  doe  when  dogs  and  horns  surround, 

That  starts,  stops,  listens,  starts  with  sudden  bound, 

Flies  from  her  covert,  leaps  rock,  fence  and  hedge, 

And  leaves  the  baying  dangers  of  the  sedge. 

Right  so  Leeona  stops,  and  starts,  and  leaps, 

And  bounding  onward  leaves  the  howling  steeps. 

The  flashing  heavens  make  her  footing  good 

In  darksome  paths,  through  the  abodeless  wood, 

As  on  she  flies,  a  spirit  of  the  night, 

But  knows  not  where  her  heaven  assisted  flight. 

Day  came — an  ugly,  wet  and  sluggish  day — 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  179 

When  in  the  woods,  far  on  Leeona's  way, 

A  band  of  sun-browned  cleavers  she  beheld, 

That  near  their  lonely  homes  their  forests  felled. 

Their  great  rough  arms,  as  rough  as  oak  limbs  are, 

Dropt  on  their  knees,  and  to  their  elbows  bare; 

Held  up  their  chins,  as  from  their  logs  they  gazed 

Upon  the  fleeing  woman,  sore  amazed. 

And  when  she  came  to  them  with  tales  of  woe, 

They  pressed  around  her  eagerly  to  know 

From  whence  she  was,  and  whither  she  would  go. 

And  then  they  grouped  and  muttered  to  themselves, 

Smote  on  their  breasts,  and  seized  their  pond'rous  helves, 

And  breathing  out  a  gale  of  oaths  and  threats, 

They  led  her  to  their  humble  forest  seats. 

Of  how  the  Creole,  by  these  woodsmens'  aid, 
Her  further  flight  toward  Ohio  made; 
Of  how  she  wandered  two  long  months,  beset 
By  shrewd  suspicions,  and  by  mistrust  met, 
By  day  concealed,  by  night  hurried  along, 
Cannot  be  uttered  on  the  tongue  of  song, 
But  raise  your  eyes  to  where  the  verging  land 
Of  Bondage  touches  Freedom's  holier  strand. 

Low  in  the  cheerless  West,  deceitful  rays 
Kindle  their  fires  to  a  feeble  blaze. 
The  leafless  woods  send  up  a  ceaseless  howl, 
As  looking  down  upon  them  with  a  scowl, 


l8o  NOT  A  MAN, 

From  voiceless  hills,  the  wintry  blasts  doth  stand, 
And  shake  their  shrieking  tops  from  hand  to  hand. 
The  hoarse'  Ohio  chafes  his  bleak  shores  gray, 
And  sullen,  rolls  to  warmer  climes  away. 

But  list !  is  that  the  moaning  of  a  gale 

Disconsolate,  within  yon  leafless  vale? 

Draw  nearer,  listen,  now  it  rises  high, 

Now  lower  sinks,  recedes,  and  now  comes  nigh. 

Is  it  the  blast  of  all  its  mildness  shorn  ? 

Ah  !  no,  'tis  poor  Leeona  that  dost  mourn  ! 

See  where  on  yonder  rising  rock  she  stands, 

And  holds  her  tattered  garments  in  her  hands ; 

Scarce  able  to  rescue  them  from  the  wind, 

That  flings  them,  with  her  streaming  locks  behind; 

Unwraps  her  perfect  limbs,  that  white  and  bare, 

Empurple  in  the  bitter  Northern  air. 

From  her  bare  feet  blood  trickles  down  the  stone ! 

Ah,  God !  Why  is  she  here  ?     Why  thus  alone  ? 

Oh,  what  hath  driven  her  from  home  away, 

And  Comfort's  hearth,  upon  this  ruthless  day  ? 

Ah  !  see  her  driven  from  warm  Care's  embrace 
A  lone  sweet  exile  of  the  Creole  race  ! 
By  heaven  forsaken,  and  denied  by  earth, 
As  if  too  crime-stained  to  deserve  a  birth. 
By  native  streams  no  more  in  peace  to  rove, 
And  hear  the  sylvan  music  of  the  grove. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  l8l 

No  more  to  pluck  the  fruits  of  gen'rous  growth, 
And  gather  flowers  of  the  fragrant  South, 
How  can  she  meet  the  fierce  wrath  of  the  North, 
Houseless  and  clotheless,  thus  to  wander  Jforth? 
Ah  !  Ask  you  ?     Turn  to  where  yon  hounds  pursue, 
And  circle  swift  the  clam' ring  forests  thro.' 
Hark  !  how  loud  horns  resound  upon  her  rear, 
Oh  !  heaven  save  her  !     Is  no  helper  near  ? 
Must  she  beneath  the  angry  tide  be  borne, 
Or  by  the  savage  hounds  be  seized  and  torn  ? 

Beyond  the  river  is  a  fisher's  hut, 

Close  in  a  cove  beneath  tall  forests  shut ; 

Beyond  the  hut  a  narrow  path  climbs  o'er 

The  crescent  bluffs,  and  winds  along  the  shore. 

Within  this  hut  Ben  Guildern  sate  all  day, 

Mending  his  nets  and  lines,  and  smoked  away. 

He  dreamed  of  this  wide  world  and  all  its  cares, 

Its  hopes  and  doubts,  its  pleasures,  pains  and  snares, 

Of  man's  pilgrimage  to  a  better  bourne, 

Where  toil  shall  rest,  and  man  shall  cease  to  mourn ; 

And  of  the  days  and  other  faces  gone, 

Ere  he  was  left  to  pass  thro'  life  alone; 

Of  pleasant  tasks  his  manly  arms  had  wrought, 

Of  slumbers  sweet  that  toil  remitting  brought ; 

And  of  the  many  times  he  climbed  that  hill, 

And  found  a  wife  and  children  waiting  still ; 

And  supper  smoking,  and  a  ready  plate, 


-182  NOT    A  MAN, 

When  all  day's  luckless  toil  had  made  him  late. 
"All  gone  !"  within  his  wave-tossed  soul  he  sighsr 
And  o'er  the  waters  lifts  his  tear-dimmed  eyes, 
"A  cold  and  blustry  night  the  boat  went  down, 
And  my  poor  wife  and  babes  were  left  to  drown  !  " 

He  sees  a  signal  from  the  other  shore — 

A  woman  beckons  him  to  set  her  o'er ; 

He  hears  the  hounds,  and  not  a  word  is  said, 

A  fugitive  he  sees  imploring  aid ; 

His  boat  is  launched,  and  from  her  moorings  thrown,. 

The  tide  awaits  her,  rolling  up  and  down, 

A  moment  near  the  shore  she  slow  doth  move, 

And  waits  another  and  another  shove ; 

This  way  and  that  the  eddy  smooth  she  tries, 

Ventures  and  darts,  and  with  the  current  flies. 

So  when  the  speedy  roe  is  brought  to  bay, 

Where  rising  cliffs  oppose  her  woody  way, 

Within  some  nook  embraced  by  rocks  and  logs, 

She  turns  her  head  upon  the  bristling  dogs, 

Bends  here  and  there  until  her  way  is  clear, 

Flies  through  her  foes  and  leaves  them  on  the  rear. 

Seized  by  the  heaving  tide,  the  feath'ry  boat, 
Midway  the  river  down  begins  to  float, 
But  Guildern  with  his  strong  arms  grasps  the  oars, 
Plies  all  his  strength,  and  up  the  current  soars. 
The  angry  billows  clamor  at  his  keel, 


AND  YET  A    MAN.  185, 

And  on  his  prow  in  sudden  fury  wheel, 
Till,  at  an  angle  of  a  good  degree 
Above  the  hound-pressed  Creole  pausing,  he 
Wheels  short  his  flight,  athwart  the  current  shaves, 
And  shoreward  glides  before  the  rolling  waves. 
So  when  the  untiring  mistress  of  the  winds 
Discovers  in  the  covert  feeding  hinds, 
Midway  she  meets  the  current  of  the  skies, 
And  by  its  adverse  strength  succeeds  to  rise, 
Till  high  above  the  destined  point  she  swings, 
Drops  from  the  clouds  and  shaves  on  level  wings. 

The  shore  is  touched,  the  Creole  boards  the  boat 
With  child  in  arms,  and  all  are  now  afloat. 
Old  Guildern  speaks  not,  but  plies  all  his  skill, 
And  looks  the  firm  monition,  "  now  be  still," 
Leeona's  heart  with  hope  and  awe  is  swelled, 
She  meets  an  eye  that  danger  never  quelled, 
A  face  as  rough  as  wintry  hills,  but  bland, 
An  arm  of  massive  strength,  but  gentle  hand. 
And  mien  of  dreadful  soberness,  that  braves 
The  sullen  fury  of  the  wind  and  waves. 
The  boat  is  now  far  out  into  the  stream, 
And  as  her  quick  oars  in  the  low  sun  gleam, 
Rides  up  and  down  the  wave,  and  oe'r  and  oe'rr 
And  level  swims  towards  the  other  shore. 
Ah  !  nobly  bearing  up  her  precious  freight, 
How  steadily  she  rocks  beneath  the  weight ! 


184  NOT  A  MAN, 

Her  keel  has  touched,  it  cleaves  the  yellow  sand, 

Thank  God !   thank  God  !   they  land,  they  land !  they  land ! 

Within  a  fisher's  hut  all  night, 
And  leaving  by  the  early  light 
Of  bleak  December's  lurid  morn, 
Leeona  passes  into  sight, 
Cast  down  and  faint,  and  travel-worn. 

From  naked  hills  loud  shrieking  flew  the  blast, 
And  out  of  hearing  moaned  along  the  waste, 
Like  some  torn  beggar  all  disconsolate, 
That  mutters  from  harsh  Opulence's  gate  ; 
As  'Ona  trudged  along  her  lonly  way, 
Beneath  a  nightly  vault  of  starless  gray. 

Her  murmuring  infant  shivered  in  the  blast, 

As  houses  by  her  way  she  hurried  past, 

Where  rustic  comfort  sat  with  smiling  pride, 

At  honest  labor's  genial  fireside. 

Thus  thro'  the  hoary  landscape's  wintry  scorn, 

She  forced  her  mind's  consent  to  journey  on  till  morn. 

•= 
The  clouds  dispersed  as  night  wore  slowly  on, 

And  stars  from  their  high  glist'ring  fields  looked  down, 

Till  late  the  moon-top'd  hills  in  white  arose, 

And  peerless  night  unveiled  her  shivering  realms  of  snows. 

Ah !  bent  and  trembling,  see  that  gentle  form, 


AND  YET   A  MAN.  185 

Where  sheltering  rocks  oppose  the  wrathful  storm, 
Chased  like  some  beast,  that  hovers  with  her  'young 
In  yawning  caves,  and  desert  rocks  among. 
Her  tender  infant  in  her  arms  is  prest, 
Hushed  are  its  cries — it  gently  seems  to  rest. 
Where  vagrant  swine  their  wintry  beds  have  made 
Of  leaves  and  branches  from  the  forest  shade, 
Now  'Ona  stoops  to  rest  her  darling's  head, 
When  lo  !  she  starts,  she  shrieks — her  child  is  dead  ! 
Her  wounded  bosom  feels  a  nameless  dart, 
A  ghastly  sorrow  clutches  at  her  heart — 
Nor  fear  assails,  tho'  now  to  leave  she  tries, 
But  trying  stays,  r^er  babe  embraces,  cries, 
The  cold  cliffs  groan,  and  hollow  night  replies. 
The  dismal  gorges  murmur  at  the  sound, 
And  empty  fields  spread  echoless  around. 


Beside  her  babe  the  weeping  mother  kneels, 

With  anguish  dumb  its  pulseless  hands  she  feels; 

Its  placid  cheek  against  her* face  is  prest, 

Her  ear  is  leant  upon  its  silent  breast; 

Her  Hopes  are  gone  !  and  Heaven's  pure  ear  hears 

Deep  grief  entreating  thro'  a  flood  of  tears. 

Above  the  cliffs  where  winds  a  country  way, 

A  voice  is  heard  in  cautious  tones  to  say : 

"  Leeona !  Oh  Leeona  !  Oh  my  dear ! 

Is  it  my'Ona's  mournful  voice  I  hear?" 


1 86  NOT  A  MAN, 

The  Creole  hushed,  afraid  to  trust  her  soul. 
That  felt  a  mighty  burden  sudden  roll; 
Quick  claspt  her  bosom  in  aching  suspense, 
But  now  distincter  heard  the  voice  commence: 
"  Leeona  !  Oh,  my  'Ona !  are  you  near?  " 
The  Creole  answers,  "  Rodney,  I  am  here !" 
Rodney  had  heard  along  Leeona' s  way, 
Of  her  wild  flight,  and  her  pursued  all  day. 
Now  down  the  cliffs  in  breathless  haste  he  flies, 
And  clasps  his  life,  as  thus  to  him  she  cries: 
"  Oh  !  see,  my  Rodney;  see  where  baby  lies  !  " 

The  bosom  that  had  life-long  sorrow  borne, 

The  heart  which  had  so  long  been  taught  to  mourn, 

With  real  manly  sympathetic  heaves, 

Bent  o'er  the  little  corpse  and  raised  it  from  the  leaves. 

"  Poor  harmless  comer  !  "  then  he  gently  said, 

"  Better  for  thee  that  thy  pure  soul  has  fled 

With  angel  watches  to  the  waiting  skies, 

Where  peace  e'er  flows,  and  happier  climes  arise. 

Conceived  in  trouble  and  in  sorrow  born, 

Thy  life  rose  clouded  in  its  very  morn, 

And  wore  along  with  unpropitious  suns; 

But  to  a  happy  close  at  last  it  runs  ! 

Sweet  be  thy  rest  upon  this  lonely  shore, 

Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  winds  no  more, 

And  ne'er  awakened  by  the  tempest's  roar.'* 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  187 

This  said,  to  roll  the  stone  away  he  stoops, 

And  in  its  bed  a  hasty  resting  scoops, 

Commits  his  tender  burden  to  the  ground, 

In  poor  Leeona's  last  torn  apron  wound. 

She  from  a  mother's  anguish  pours  out  cries, 

Bends  o'er  her  infant  where  entombed  it  lies, 

Its  calm  cheek  moistens  from  her  tender  eyes, 

Its  pale  lips  kisses  o'er  and  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  deeper  sobs  with  each  long  last  once  more, 

Till  Rodney's  kindly  touch  she  feels  implore; 

Then  murmurs  "  good-bye,  good-bye,  mamma's  May  I" 

And  with  a  loud  wail  tears  her  wounded  heart  away. 

Here  sadness  ends, 

A  new  sun  lends 

His  beams  to  light  our  way, 

And  pleasant  sights, 

And  fair  delights 

Unite  to  raise  our  lay. 

Where  Freedom  is  what  Freedom  means, 

Our  lovers  pass  to  other  scenes. 


1 88  NOT  A  MAN 


SUSSEX  VALE,  CANADA. 


Sweet  vale  of  the  Sussex  !  the  pride  of  the  Queen, 

Whose  life  has  a  reign  of  beneficence  been; 

The  flow'r  of  Britana's  possessions  afar 

In  the  cold  land,  that  lies  beneath  the  North  star. 

No  slaveholder's  foot  e'er  polluted  thy  soil, 

No  slave  in  thy  fields  ever  bended  to  toil. 

As  Bunyan's  poor  Christian  who,  fleeing  for  life, 

Left  the  land  of  Destruction,  and  children  and  wife, 

And  saw  as  the  shadow  of  Calv'ry  he  crost, 

His  burden  rolled  down  and  forever  was  lost; 

So,  when  the  poor  fugitive,  foot-sore  and  wan, 

From  the  land  of  oppressors  for  liberty  ran; 

He  found  that  his  shackles  would  crumble  and  fall, 

As  he  stood  in  the  shadow  of  proud  Montreal. 

Asylum,  fair  Sussex,  art  thou  of  the  free, 
And  of  all  the  oppressed,  that  to  thy  arms  flee 
From  "  the  land  of  the  free,  and  home  of  the  brave — 
Ah  !  land  of  the  bound  and  the  hell  of  the  slave. 

O,  Sussex !  dear  Sussex !  the  scenes  I  remember, 
As  down  thee  I  wander'd  in  yellow  September  ! 
The  gay  tinted  woods  in  the  sunset's  gold  gleaming, 
The  creek  down  thy  midst  like  a  sheet  of  light  streaming, 
The  busy  mill  near  it,  and  brown  barns  above, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  189 

And  blithe  childhood  shouting  in  the  deep  still  grove; 
The  lowing  of  herds,  and  the  milkmaid  calling, 
And  the  tinkling  of  folds  thro'  the  twilight  falling. 

And  lo !  a  neat  cottage  with  windows  of  green, 

Scarce  thro'  the  thick  boughs  of  yon  elms  is  seen  ! 

There  now  the  free  lovers,  that  once  were  the  slave, 

The  maid  of  the  rice  swamp  and  Rodney  the  brave, 

Are  dwelling  in  wedlock's  dear  holiest  ties, 

The  objects  of  comment  and  pride  for  all  eyes. 

The  stranger  who  passes  thro'  Sussex  must  hear 

On  the  lips  of  the  cottager,  far  and  near,  f 

The  love  of  these  new  comers  pointedly  told, 

And  telling  it  over,  it  never  grows  old. 


190  NOT  A   MAN, 


THE  LITTLE  GREEN  COTTAGE. 


Canadian  farmers  came  oft  to  the  little  green  cottage, 

To  see  their  new  neighbors  and  hear  them  tell  over  their 

troubles. 
The  tales  of  their  pilgrimage  e'er  to  their  hearers  had  new 

charms ; 
And  instances,  once  told,  cloyed  not  in  repeating  them  over. 

Thus  it  was  that  farmers,  as  rough  as  the  oaks  in  their 

forests, 
But  open,   and  clever,   and  frank  as  the  brooks  in  their 

meadows, 

Came  oft  in  the  twilight  and  sat  in  the  door  of  the  cottage, 
And  said:  "  We  would  hear  of  the  land  of  the  poor  sable 

bondman." 
And  forward  they  leant,   and  sat  mute  as  they  heard  the 

dark  stories 

That  sully  the  borw  of  America's  proudest  endeavors. 
And  regarding  Leeona  with  pity,  they  sighed :  "  Lord  have 

mercy ; " 
As  her  words,  soft  and  tender,  fell  on  their  great  hearts 

with  sweet  pathos. 
With  wonder  they  look'd  as  they  heard  of  the  bayou  and 

cane-brake ; 
Their  breasts  smote  and  murmured  to  hear  of  poor  fugitive 

mothers 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  191 

Chased  down  by  fell  bloodhounds,  and  dragged  from   the 

cypress  swamps  bleeding. 
And  their  faces  flamed  red,  and  they  plucked  their  long 

beard  for  resentment, 
To   hear   of   slave-holders   who   bought  pure  beauty  and 

denied  it; 
Blighting   the   hopes    of    the    sweetest,    the   fairest,    and 

youngest; 

Adorning  their  harems  with  flowers  all  ruined  but  lovely ! 
And  wringing  from  hoar  age's  heart  submission  to  these  vile 

abuses. 
But  they  raised  their  broad  hats,  and  shouted  and  stamped 

with  boist'rous  gladness, 
To  hear  of  Leeona  escaping  with  Rodney  her  lover. 

Thus  it  was  that  many  an  evening  Rodney's  friends  came 

around  him, 

And  far  went  the  fame  of  the  heroine  of  the  savannas. 
The  same  brave  Rodney  whose  blows  were  too  hard  for  the 

savage; 
Whose  feet  were  too  swift,  and  whose  arms  were  too  strong 

for  the  bloodhound, 

In  his  secret  heart  felt  his  whole  life's  fairest  triumph 
When  he  saw  his  Leeona  the  pride  of  all  the  great  farmers. 
Certain  was  he  in  his  poverty  and  humble  endeavors; 
His  little  green  cottage,  tho'  lowly,  had  its  attractions — 
Leeona,  the  womanly  model  of  gentleness  lived  there. 
Not  young  was  she  now,  and  radiant  as  she  was  aforetime, 


I Q2  NOT  A  MAN, 

Not  thoughtlessly  shy  and  blushing  with  reluctance  so  fawn- 
like, 

Her  arms  were*  not  smooth  and  round  as  they  once  were; 
her  cheeks  not  so  ruddy; 

Her  eyes  were  not  so  brilliant,  and  playful,  and  winning; 

But  softened  by  love,  they  beamed  steadier  and  overcame 
more. 

They  were  not  the  first  stars  that  peep  shyly  thro'  the 
whisp'ring  twilight, 

But  the  last  sober-beaming  ones  that  patiently  linger 

Above  the  familiar  wood  that  watches  the  homes  of  our 
childhood. 

She  was  not  the  bright  light  that  once  dazzled  and  charmed 
with  its  brilliance; 

But  settled  and  modest,  the  amiable  light  of  the  hearth 
stone, 

That  draws  all  close  about  it,  and  sets  all  near  hearts  a 
chirping. 

The  wife  of  a  good  man,  content  to  be  his  and  to  love  him, 
Ambitious  to  rival  herself  in  his  strong  affections, 
And  ready  always  to  lay  hold  with  her  hands  and  be  happy. 
A  good  wife  was  she,   and  loved  all  who  loved  her  good 

husband; 

And  ever  was  ready  to  set  him  in  the  eyes  of  her  friends 
By  kindness.     Thus  was  she  the  idol  of  Rodney  and  his- 

friends. 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 

Not   least   among   those   who   frequented   the  little  green 

cottage 

Was  Father  Eppinck,  the  good  priest  of  the  parish  of  Sussex, 
A  great  and  good  man  was  he,  and  a  true  shepherd  to  all 

of  his  fold. 

Were  any  by  poverty  shorn  of  the  comforts  of  this  life, 
His  mantle  of  care  he  threw  around  them,  with  love  warmed. 
Were   the   young  gone  astray  in   the   dangerous  wastes  of 

transgression, 
He  followed  their  way,  and  returned  with  them  prest  to  his 

bosom, 
Were  the  old  with  woes  pregnant,  and  burdened  with  great 

tribulations, 
He  led  them,  and  gently  pointed  them  to  a  more  blessed 

future. 
Thus   it   was   that  he  came  to  the  home  of  Leeona  and 

Rodney, 
With   treasures  of  kind  words.     He  called  them  his  two 

loving  children, 

And  always  on  leaving,  he  left  them  his  best  benediction. 
He  too  loved  Leeona,  and  came  to  hear  of  her  pilgrimage. 

'Twas  a  balmy  afternoon  in  the  joyous  vale  of  the  Sussex, 
And  the  voices  of  Autumn  were  heard  in  all  of  the  north  land. 
The  fields  were  shorn  of   their  harvests,   and  the  golden 

sheaves  were  gathered  in, 
And  stacked  in   the  barn-yards.     The  mill  complained  in 

the  valley, 


NOT  A   MAN, 

The  distant  glen  echoed  and  sang  with  the  music  of  axes, 
And  the  wain  came  down  from  the  deep  woods  groaning 

beneath  its  logs. 

The  forests  wore  gay  colors,  but  sighed  and  were  melancholy. 
Then  Father  Eppinck,  as  he  sate  in  the  door  of  the  cottage, 
Lifted  up  his  eyes  and  beheld  the  fair  vale  of  the  Sussex. 
He  saw  the  sweet  tokens  of  peace  that  appeared  in  the 

heavens; 
And  he  heard  the  voice  of  contentment  that  went  up  from 

the  earth  beneath; 
The  sweet  words  of  plenty  he  heard,  and  the  load  shouts 

of  strong  health; 
And  then  he   raised  his  voice   and  said :   "  O  my  God,  I 

bless  Thee ! 
For  the  rolling  seasons  and  the  full  year,  I  magnify  thee ! 

I  thank  thee  for  the  hills  and  the  high  rock,  and  the  great 

« 
forests. 

I  thank  thee  for  the  pleasant  valleys  and  their  full  fields  of 

grain, 
For  their  flowing  streams,   and  the  burdened  orchards  on 

their  green  banks. 
I  thank  thee  for  plenty,  for  health,  and  for  homes ;  but,  oh 

my  God! 
I  extol  thee  for  freedom,   the  hope  of  the  church  of  the 

Savior. 
Here  peace  spreads  her  white  wings,  and  sun  never  looks 

on  a  bondman. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  195 

Here  earth  yields  her  increase,  and  no  slave's  sweat  ever 
falls  upon  it. 

Oh  God  I  bless  thee  for  Canada  and  the  Crown  of  Eng 
land!" 

When  Father  Eppinck  had  finished,  this  saying,  with  kind 

words 
He  turned  to   Leeona  and   Rodney  and  said :     "  Now    I 

leave  you. 

I  go  up  to  Montreal  by  the  first  coach  to-morrow. 
If  the  morning  be  fair,  I  hope  to  be  off  before  cock  crow. 
A  month  shall  I  be  gone,  and  now  that  the  Autumn  is  far 

spent, 

My  coming  to  Sussex  again  will  be  in  the  Winter. 
What  time  I  am  in  Montreal,  I  will  be  in  the  house  of  a 

merchant, 
A  good  man,  whose  wealth  has  kept  pace  with  his  increasing 

goodness ; 

A  Christian,  whose  devotion  to  Christ  and  his  holy  Apostles 
In  alms  deeds  is  shown.     Samaritan-like  he  goes  forward 
Into  the  highways  of  this  life,  and  gathers  up  the  wounded 
Spirit,  and  bears  him  in  the  arms  of  his  wealth  to  the  inn 

of  comfort ; 
And  when  nakedness  cries  in  the  street,  he  hears  her,  and 

lends  her  help, 
And  asks  not;    "But  why   are  you  naked?     Why  did  you 

not  save  in  harvest  ?  " 

And  his  lovely  wife,  the  center  of  Montreal  circles, 


196  NOT  A  MAN, 

A  brave  hearted,  noble,  merciful  and  fair  life  consort, 
Throws  around  him  the  arms  of  encouragement  in  all  his 

good  deeds. 
She  is  happiest  always   among  those  that  her  hands  have 

made  happy. 
Her  heart  is  a  fountain   of  kind  words,  and  like   Aquila  of 

old, 
She  delights  in  the  church  of  God,  in  Christ  and  his  holy 

Apostles. 

Her  accomplishments  drag  after  her  a  train  of  admirers ; 
Her  beauty  a  train  of  worshippers,  her  charity  a  host 
Of  grateful  lovers;  while  her  affectionate  fidelity 
Lights  up  her  home  so  that  her  husband  says :    '  A  star  is 

Dora.' " 

Now  Rodney  hung  his  head  when  this  last  word,  Dora,  fell 

on  his  ears ; 
And  as  he  bade  Father  Eppinck  adieu,  he  looked  up  and 

sighed ; 

And  the  light  of  recollections  flashed  across  his  manly  face 
Like  a  burst  of  sun   that  thro'  white   clouds  lights  waving 

harvests. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  197 


ONE  SNOWY  NIGHT. 


The  laughter  of  sleigh  bells  was  heard  on  the  lips  of  the 

snow  storm 
All  day  long,  and  passers  were  scarcely  seen  thro'  the  falling 

flakes 
Hurriedly  going,  wrapped  close,  and  one  not  speaking  to 

another. 
'Twas  bitter  cold,   and  the  stiffened  forests  tossed  in  the 

northern  blast; 
And  the  "great  old  pines,   as  the  gale  smote  their  snowy 

heads,  grumbled, 
And  seemed  in  their  anguish  to  mutter:  u  Let  loose  our 

hair  and  our  whiskers  ! " 
The  slow  wreathes  of  smoke  curled  dreamily  thro'  the  still 

branches 

That  burdened    with    snow,   stooped  down   and  were  sad- 
hearted  and  silent. 
All  sounds  of  the  barn-yard  were  hushed  in  the  chill  breath 

of  Winter. 
The  cottage  was  still,  and  within  doors  the  cotter  kept  quiet. 

The  nightfall  came,  and  still  the  flakes  were  coming  thickly 

down. 
"  How  it  snows,"  said  Leeona,  as  she  shut  the  neat  door  of 

her  cottage. 


198  NOT  A  MAN, 

Then  she  drew  her  chair  near  Rodney,  and  sat  before  a 

a  warm  fire  of  logs. 

This  night  the  little  green  cottage  was  unusually  cozy ; 
The  cat  on  the  rug  sung  low  to  the  slumbering  puppy, 
Who  yelped  in  a  dream,  and  nipped  at  the  heels  of  a 

rabbit. 
The   light   of    the   fire-place,   streaming   across   the   clean 

hearth, 
Glared  on  the  walls,   and  flashed  from  the  chairs  and  the 

tables, 
Like    the   recollections    of  childhood   flinging    their   cheer 

across  life's  path. 

Now  thus  to  her  lord  spoke  the  heroine  of  the  Savannas : 
"  The  approaching  Christmas  throws  the  shadows  of  mirth 

into  Sussex. 

Never  before  was  there  such  buying  of  presents  among  us ; 
Never  before  such  love  without  dissimulation." 

Of  a  sudden  Leeona  hushed  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon 
Rodney. 

"Whoa  !"  cried  a  voice  at  the  door,  as  rough  as  the  oaths 
of  a  seaman, 

"  Still,  Sorrel !  "  and  a  sleigh  had  stopped  at  the  door  of  the 
cottage. 

Leeona  rose  up  quickly,  "but  Rodney  sat  still  and  listened 

Till  she  had  opened  the  door  and  looked  out  in  the  dark 
ness. 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 

A  dim  lamp  in  tjie  driver's  hand  streamed  thro'  the  falling 

flakes 

And  discovered  two  men  in  the  sleigh  and  one  woman. 
The  men  in  their  great  coats  wrapped  dismounted,  and 

then  the  woman, 
Muffled  in  heavy  furs,   and  veiled,  stepped  down  between 

them; 
When  the  driver  reined  his  horses  and  dashed  away  in  the 

silence. 
The  strangers  entered  the  door  and  Father  Eppinck  before 

them, 
And  bowing,  he  said:  "These  are  my  friends  of  whom  I 

spoke  aforetime." 


Rodney  arose  and  stood  erect  in  speechless  wonder  and 
silence, 

As  the  tall  and  lovely  form  of  Dora,  the  heroine  of  Saville, 

Stood  in  the  midst  of  the  floor  of  his  humble  dwelling,  and 
reached 

The  white  hand  of  recognition,  saying,  with  the  sweetness 
of  other  days : 

"  Do  mine  eyes  behold  thee,  oh  Rodney,  my  dearest  bene 
factor  ! 

I  have  heard  of  you  here  and  have  come  to  remove  you  to 
Montreal. 

My  home  is  a  home  for  you,  and  the  days  of  your  toil  are 
ended." 


200  NOT   A   MAN, 

For  the  tears  of  gladness  and  gratitude  the  manly  hero 

Of  a  thousand  trials  hard  could  not  speak,  but  he  seized 

the  small  hand 
Extended,   and  wept  a  benediction  of  tears  upon  it,   and 

kissed  it. 

His  great  stern  face  of  simple  fidelity  and  manhood  brave, 
Was  now  lighted  up  with  a  glow  exceeding  portrayal, 
And  in  its  effulgence  approaching  those  who  stand  in  white 

robes 

Ever,  within  the  tidal  glory  of  the  Throne  Eternal. 
There  were  greetings  then,   and  the  joy  of  all  hearts  was 

running  over ; 
And  there   countenances  all  shone  with  the  light  of   the 

Kingdom  of  Heaven. 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  2OI 


THE  END  OP  THE  WHOLE  MATTER. 


A  tall  brave  man  of  gray  three  score, 

The  sable  columns  rode  before, 

The  knightliest  of  the  knightly  throng, 

The  bravest  of  the  brave  and  strong 

Who  on  the  field  of  Nashville  stood 

Against  the  hosts  of  gallant  Hood; 

When  noble  Thomas,  mild  and  brave, 

Against  the  armed  master,  threw  the  former  slave. 

Rodney  had  left  his  home  in  foreign  lands, 

And  laid  his  life  into  our  country's  hands, 

His  struggling  kindred's  conquests  proud  to  share, 

For  he  beheld  acknowledged  manhood  there. 

And  this  the  grandest  day  that  ever  rose 

Upon  his  life,  at  its  eventful  close 

Was  bringing  with  it  recollections  sweet, 

That  made  his  old  heroic  heart  with  youth's  emotions  bea  t 

His  country's  banner,  soiled  and  battle-torn, 
In  sable  hands  before  the  columns  borne, 
Streamed  in  the  setting  sun's  deep  golden  light, 
And  rivaled  Heaven  in  her  blazon  bright. 
The  drums  of  victory  clamored  on  his  ear; 
The  bugle's  wail  of  rest  was  ringing  clear, 
Thunder  of  wheels  was  in  the  distance  roaring, 


202  NOT  A  MAN, 

And  into  camp  the  weary  victors  pouring. 

He  saw  that  Slav'ry's  days  were  numbered  now. 

Far  death's  cold  damp  hung  on  her  pallid  brow. 

And  looking  now  upon  his  left  and  right, 
Two  proud  sons  who  had  ridden  thro'  the  fight 
With  him,  rode  there  with  martial  mien  and  brave, 
The  off 'rings  which  Leeona's  bosom  gave 
The  country  that  had  chased  her  as  a  slave. 
He  saw  his  sons,  and  prouder  felt  than  he 
Who  took  Rebellion's  sword  from  famous  Lee. 

This  was  the  day  when  Southern  chivalry 

Beheld  black  manhood  clothed  in  liberty, 

Step  from  the  shadow  of  his  centuries 

Of  bondage,  shake  dejection  from  his  eyes, 

And  to  the  awful  verge  of  valor  rise. 

The  day  that  heard  the  negro,  scarred  and  maimed, 

On  sovereign  battle's  lips  a  man  proclaimed. 

The  hosts  of  Sherman  marching  to  the  sea, 
Beneath  Rebellion's  trembling  canopy 
Swept  like  a  thunder  storm,  whose  lightnings  catch 
The  shaking  hills  with  hands  of  flame,  and  snatch 
Their  mighty  forests  down.     The  Nation  then 
Lifted  her  hands  to  Heaven  and  praised  the  men 
Who  cleaved  their  way  by  hard  incessant  blows, 
From  where  the  hills  of  Cumberland  arose, 
And  at  the  Northern  door  of  Slavedom  held 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  %  203 

Their  watch,  to  where  the  Mexic  Ocean  swelled; 

Wrenching  fair  victory  from  brave  hands  and  true 

As  e'er  on  foe  the  steel  of  battle  drew, 

The  Alpine  strength  of  strongholds  sweeping  down, 

And  treading  under  foot  each  hostile  town. 

Then  fair  applause  warmed  her  white  hands  with  claps, 

And  bright-faced  greetings  at  all  doors  gave  raps, 

Gray  bearded  gratitude  bowed  on  his  knees, 

And  cheering  cities  flamed  with  jubilees. 

But  soon  a  change  came  o'er  the  Nation's  face, 
The  light  of  mirth  to  clouds  of  fear  gave  place. 
The  chiming  bells  that  jubilantic  rung, 
Now  hushed  their  throats  or  spoke  with  doleful  tongue. 
The  mazy  dance  held  her  light-booted  feet, 
And  music  soft  suppressed  her  murmurs  sweet. 
Sad-faced  religion  sought  the  church  once  more, 
And  faith  went  back  to  do  her  first  works  o'er. 

The  gallant  Hood,  intrepid  Sherman  knew 

Would  cleave  the  Slaveholder's  domains  in  two, 

So,  as  that  military  comet  went 

To  Southward,  he  his  swift  flight  Northward  bent. 

The  Union  struck  at  proud  Rebellion's  heart; 

Rebellion  aimed  at  her  same  vital  part, 

And  doubtless  had  a  wound  most  painful  made, 

Had  not  the  Union's  negro  arm  displayed 

Such  valiant  strength  in  warding  off  the  blow, 

And  striking  down  the  strong  and  gallant  foe. 


204  NOT  A  MAN, 

0 

As  Rodney  rode  to  camp  this  glorious  day, 

He  heard  a  dying  soldier  by  his  way, 

Half  hidden  'mong  his  mangled  comrades  pray. 

His  tortured  soul  of  ruin  conscious  cried, 

Raved  thro'  its  mansion  dark  from  side  to  side, 

Rose  to  the  eyes  and  stood  with  dreadful  glare, 

Ran  to  the  heart,  and  fluttered,  groaning  there, 

And  shuddering  in  the  awful  shades  of  woe, 

Sank  down  in  mortal  dread  and  pleaded  not  to  go. 

As  hope  forever  bade  her  host  farewell, 

Now  mem'ry  came  into  the  soul's  dark  cell, 

And  with  the  wrongs  of  unrepented  yore, 

Manacled  her,  and  chained  her  to  the  floor. 

Remorse  then  followed  with  the  criminal's  scourge, 

Her  pris'ner  seized,  and  dragged  towards  the  verge 

Of  mis'ry  bottomless,  and  'mid  the  smoke 

Of  black  torment,  that  rolled  and  spread  and  broke, 

Laid  on  her  lash  of  scorpions  with  heavy  stroke. 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  "  the  sufferer  cries,  "  have  mercy  now  ! 

I  would  pray  right,  Lord  Jesus,  teach  me  how  ! 

Ah !  I've  insulted  thee,  I  know,  I  own, 

But  Savior,  make  thy  boundless  mercies  known; 

Oh,  life  misspent,  could  I  but  now  recall  ! 

Leeona,  Rodney,  ah  !  forgive  me  all. 

Help  !  water  !  water  !  water,  or  I  die  !  " 

"  Who's  here  ?  "  cries  Rodney,  quickly  turning  by, 

The  dying  man  stares  on  the  speaker  brave, 


AND  YET  A  MAN. 

In  ghastly  silence,  as  the  whisper  "  save  !  " 

Falls  from  his  lips;  then  like  a  madman  yells, 

And  rolls  his  painful  balls  within  their  fevered  cells. 

Rodney  forgets  the  wrongs  of  other  years, 

As  wretchedness'  bitter  cry  he  hears; 

The  red  wounds  that  with  parched  lips  appeal 

To  heav'n  he  sees,  and  can't  his  tears  conceal. 

He  kneels  upon  the  ground  where  Aylor  lies, 

His  canteen  to  his  quiv'ring  lips  applies, 

The  sinking  body  in  his  arms  doth  rest, 

And  leans  his  throbing  head  against  his  breast. 

Now  stooping  o'er,  the  hero  hears  the  cry: 

"  Rodney,  I  know,  forgive  me  ere  I  die  ! 

Leeona  tell " — he  fixes  here  his  eyes, 

And  still  in  death,  on  Rodney's  bosom  lies. 

And  now  my  country  let  us  bury  all 

Our  blunders  sad  beneath  grim  battle's  pall. 

Gathered  beneath  the  storm's  heroic  folds, 

While  our  dear  land  an  aching  bosom  holds, 

Let  us  forget  the  wrongs  of  blue  and  grey, 

In  gazing  on  the  grandeur  of  the  fray. 

Now  let  the  vanquished  his  repentant  face 

Lean  in  the  victor's  merciful  embrace, 

And  let  the  victor,  with  his  strong  arm  heal 

The  bleeding  wounds  that  gape  beneath  his  steel. 

And  may  no  partial  hand  attempt  a  lay 


2O6  NOT  A    MAN, 

Of  praise,  as  due  alone  to  blue  or  grey. 

The  warrior's  wreath  may  well  by  both  be  worn, 

For  braver  man  than  either  ne'er  was  born. 

They  both  have  marched  to  death  and  victory, 

They  both  have  shown  heroic  misery, 

And  won  the  soldier's  immortality. 

But  scars  of  honor  that  they  both  yet  wear, 

The  proudest  testimonials  of  their  valor  are. 

And  where  our  sons  their  battle  lances  drew, 

Fought  not  their  sable  comrades  bravely  too  ? 

Let  Wagner  answer  'mid  the  reeking  storm, 

That  mingles  with  black  dead  proud  Shaw's  fair  form. 

Ask  it  of  Fisher,  and  a  thousand  more 

Brave  fields  that  answer  with  their  lips  of  gore. 

And  while  America's  escutcheon  bright, 

Is  bathed  in  war-won  Freedom's  glorious  light, 

Forget  it  not,  the  colored  man  will  fight. 

More  patriotism  Sparta  never  knew, 

A  lance  more  knightly  Norman  never  threw, 

More  courage  never  armed  the  Roman  coasts, 

With  blinder  zeal  ne'er  rode  the  Moslem  hosts, 

And  ne'er  more  stubborn  stood  the  Muscovite, 

Than  stood  the  hated  negro  in  the  fight. 

The  war  was  God-sent,  for  the  battle  blade, 
Around  the  seething  gangrene,  Slavery,  laid, 
By  Heaven's  arm,  this  side  and  that  was  prest, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  207 

Until  the  galling  shame  dropt  from  the  Nation's  breast. 

War  was  inevitable,  for  the  crimes 

That  stained  our  hands  (and  in  the  olden  times 

Engendered)  now  were  Constitutional, 

And  spreading  thro'  the  Nation's  body  all. 

Deep  rooted  where  the  vital  currents  meet 

Around  the  heart  of  government,  their  seat 

Evaded  Legislation's  keenest  skill,  . 

Or  bent  the  stoutest  edge  of  human  will. 

'Twas  then  that  God  the  raving  Nation  threw 

Upon  her  own  war  lance  and  from  her  drew, 

By  accidental  providence,  a  flood 

Of  old  diseases  that  lurked  in  her  blood. 

Whom  Moses  witnessed  'mid  old  Sinai's  smoke, 
Whose  arm  from  Judah's  neck  had  torn  the  yoke, 
And  with  it  broken  Egypt's  bones  of  pride, 
And  with  his  chariots  strown  the  Red  Sea  tide; 
Who  stripped  the  golden  crimes  from  Babel's  throne, 
And  made  his  pow'r  to  Baal's  adorers  known; 
He  stood  among  us  and  His  right  arm  bared 
To  show  His  ways  by  seers  of  old  declared. 
While  millions  trembled  at  Oppression's  nod, 
Oppression  sank  beneath  the  finger  touch  of  God. 
Line  upon  line  the  centuries  had  wrought, 
And  precept  upon  precept  vainly  taught, 
The  prophets  had  of  old  been  heard  to  cry, 
While  signs  and  wonders  figured  in  the  sky, 


208  NOT  A  MAN, 

And  then  the  Incarnation  of  all  good, 

By  Jordan's  wave  and  in  the  Mount  had  stood, 

And  with  His  hand  of  gentltness  and  love 

Transcendent,  that  a  heart  of  stone  could  move, 

Had  touched  the  ties  of  every  human  woe, 

And  loosing  fettered  mind,  said:  "  Let  him  go." 

And  His  great  heart  to  patience  ev*er  moved, 

And  always  gentle  e'en  if  He  reproved, 

Bore  this  sweet  sentence  from  his  sinless  Home: 

"  To  preach  deliv'rance  to  the  bound  I'm  come." 

But  even  then,  our  country  shook  her  head, 

Her  eagle  wings  of  independence  spread, 

One  tipped  with  fires  of  the  Tropic's  glow, 

The  other  lashing  in  the  realms  of  snow, 

And  in  her  pride  declared  that  God's  own  Son 

Had.  licensed  Slavery's  dark  crimes,  every  one. 

And  tho'  we  shackled  Afric's  sable  hands, 

And  scourged  her  where  the  smoking  altar  stands. 

And  tho'  we  loaded  down  her  captive  feet 

With  iron  chains,  right  by  the  mercy  seat, 

And  tho'  we  laid  her  virgin  bosom  bare, 

And  forced  her  where  the  fires  of  off 'ring  glare; 

We  smote  our  conscience  with  a  palm  of  ease, 

And  thanked  God  that  his  pure  eye  ever  sees  ! 

Who  then  can  wonder  that  the  Lord  would  smite 

The  haughty  neck  that  did  Him  thus  despite  ? 

Now  let  us  in  the  light  of  future  years, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  209 

Forget  our  loss  and  sacrificial  tears, 

And  thank  kind  heav'n  that  tho'  we  erred  and  strayed, 

We  to  the  good  path  our  return  have  made. 


Hail  dawning  Peace !     Speed  on  thy  glorious  rise  ! 

And  with  thy  beams  unseal  the  nation's  eyes. 

Let  Islam  in  the  blaze  of  scimitar 

Proclaim  his  rites,  and  gorge  the  fangs  of  war, 

But  peace  be  unto  thee,  lano1  of  our  sires, 

Whose  sacred  altar  flames  with  holier  fires ! 

Let  lawlessness  no  longer  stagger  forth 

With  his  destructive  torch,  nor  South  nor  North ; 

And  let  the  humblest  tenant  of  the  fields, 

Secured  of  what  his  honest  labor  yields, 

Pursue  his  calling,  ply  his  daily  care, 

His  home  adorn  and  helpless  children  rear, 

Assured  that  while  our  flag  above  him  flies, 

No  lawless  hand  can  dare  molest  his  joys. 


Lo !  from  yon  hights,  land  of  the  rising  star, 
The  hands  of  Freedom  beckon  from  afar, 
And  mid  the  glad  acclaims  of  roused  mankind 
Fling  her  immortal  standard  to  the  wind; 
Speed  there  thy  flight,  and  lead  the  glorious  train 
That  swell  the  lofty  tributes  of  her  reign. 
Thy  hands  are  wrested  from  the  tyrant's  hold, 


210  NOT  A   MAN, 

Thy  name  on  Time's  illustrious  page  enrolled, 
And  thy  escutcheon  bright,  embossed  with  gold. 

From  Erie's  rock-watched  shores  to  Mexic's_sands, 
No  more  the  bondman  wrings  his  fettered  hands; 
No  more  entreaty's  sable  face  thro'  tears, 
Looks  on  for  succor  thro'  the  weary  years ; 
For  Freedom's  holy  dawn  is  now  begun, 
And  earth  rejoices  'neath  her  rising  sun. 
Requited  toil  content  pursues  his  care, 
Walks  with  bold  strides  as  free  as  heaven's  air ; 
The  gen'rous  fields  put  on  their  aspect  sweet, 
And  forests  blithe  their  hymns  of  God  repeat. 
Dear  western  woods  !  thou  harbors  of  the  free. 
With  youthful  hearts  we  wander  back  to  thee, 
And  ere  these  numbers  hush,  once  more  would  lie 
Beneath  thee  stretched  and  gaze  upon  the  sky. 
Thou  art  more  proud  than  Windsor's  lofty  shade, 
By  poet  sung,  or  by  the  sage  portrayed. 
No  lordly  despot  o'er  thy  ample  grounds, 
Sways  ancient  titles  and  proclaims  his  bounds ; 
J3ut  each  poor  tenant  owns  his  humble  plot, 
Tills  his  neat  farm  and  rears  his  friendly  cot. 
The  weary  trav'ler  'long  thy  roads  may  lie, 
As  peaceful  as  the  brook  that  rambles  by, 
From  boughs  that  drop  with  plenty  gather  food, 
And  o'er  his  dear  ones  rear  a  shelter  rude. 
Thou  noble  seats !  fit  theme  of  bard  or  sage, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  211 

Beneath  thy  bow'rs  leans  venerable  age, 
While  from  the  summit  of  his  stalwart  years, 
His  life's  calm  twilight  slowly  disappears, 
And  hope's  sweet  sunrise  in  the  future  nears. 
And  where  smooth  paths  thy  solemn  shades  divide, 
Walks  buoyant  toil  with  young  love  at  his  side, 
And  charmed  by  songs  that  ev'ry  zephyr  shakes 
From  boughs  around,  his  hopeful  journey  takes. 
And  flaxen  childhood  there  the  live-long  day, 
In  blithe  sports  whirls  and  wanders  far  away. 

Oh  comrade  freemen  strike  your  hands  to  stand 

Like  walls  of  rock  and  guard  our  father-land  ! 

Oh  guard  our  homes  and  institutions  free, 

The  price  of  blood  and  valor's  legacy. 

Awake  to  watch,  ye  sovereign  sons  of  toil ! 

If  despot  feet  e're  touch  our  country's  soil, 

Fly  to  the  standard  that  by  freemen  born, 

The  glory  of  a  hundred  years  has  worn, 

Blood-stained,  yet  bright,  streaming,  but  battle-torn, 

And  rally  till  the  last  drop  from  the  veins 

Of  free  America  flows  on  our  plains. 

Eternal  vigilance  must  light  the  tower, 

Whose  granite  strength  can  bide  the  evil  hour, 

Whose^wave-dashed  base  defies  the  tempest's  shock, 

Builded  upon  the  everlasting  rock. 

At  last,  proud  land,  let  potent  wisdom  write 

Her  name  above  thy  brow  in  glorious  light, 


212  NOT  A  MAN, 

And  suffer  ne'er  thy  hands  to  idle  rest 

Till  learning  lights  thy  humblest  subject's  breast. 

In  cities  tall,  and  in  the  hamlet  rude, 

Suffer  no  partial  hand  to  e'er  exclude 

A  single  poor  from  fair  instruction's  halls, 

But  write  EQUALITY  on  all  her  walls. 

An  equal  chance  in  life,  and  even  start, 

Give  every  one  and  let  him  play  his  part. 

But  who  could,  with  complacence  on  his  face, 

First  bind  one's  feet,  then  challenge  for  a  race  ? 

I  would  not  own  I  was  a  thing  so  small, 

I'd  rather  own  I  was  no  man  at  all, 

Than  show  that  I  must  some  advantage  take, 

The  race  of  life  respectably  to  make. 

Say  my  facilities  must  all  be  best, 

Then  write  excelsior  upon  my  crest  ? 

Nay,  rather  let  me  weed  the  hardest  row, 

And  rise  above  by  toiling  from  below. 

Free  schools,  free  press,  free  speech  and  equal  laws, 
A  common  country  and  a  common  cause, 
Are  only  worthy  of  a  freeman's  boasts — 
Are  Freedom's  real  and  intrinsic  costs. 
Without  these,  Freedom  is  an  empty  name, 
And  war-worn  glory  is  a  glaring  shame. 
Soon  where  yon  happy  future  now  appears, 
Where  learning  now  her  glorious  temple  rears, 
Our  country's  hosts  shall  round  one  interest  meet, 


AND  YET  A  MAN.  213 

And  her  free  heart  with  one  proud  impulse  beat, 
One  common  blood  thro'  her  life's  channels  flow, 
While  one  great  speech  her  loyal  tongue  shall  know. 
And  soon,  whoever  to  our  bourne  shall  come, 
Jew,  Greek  or  Goth,  he  here  shall  be  at  home. 
Then  Ign'rance  shall  forsake  her  crooked  ways, 
And  poor  old  Caste  there  end  her  feeble  days. 


THE    END. 


POEMS 


ON 


MISCELLANEOUS 


SUBJECTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 


PEACE. 


As  the  raindrop  on  a  flower 
When  the  bow  's  behind  a  shower, 
As  the  breeze  that  fans  the  forehead 
Of  the  sunset,  when  his  cheeks  red 
Nestle  on  his  mountain  pillow, 
Or  a  sea  without  a  billow; 
So  is  Peace's  sweet  libations, 
To  the  bosom  of  the  Nations. 

While  the  Shepherd's  lone  were  tending 
Flocks  by  night  on  Judah's  plain; 
Angels  bright  above  them  bending, 
Trumpeted  their  sweet  refrain: 

"  Glory  be  to  God  in  Heaven, 
Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men. 
To  the  world  a  Savior's  given, 
Lo  !  he  comes  in  Bethlehem. 

Then  a  door  in  Heaven  opened, 
And  a  milk-white  spirit  flew 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  2iy 

From  the  golden  portals  earthward — 
And  the  Nation's  journeying  thro', 

She  touched  the  Conqu'ror's  sword,  that  thrust 
Thro'  thousand  hearts  red  honors  wore; 
The  glitt'ring  terror  fell  before 
His  eyes  and  crumbled  into  dust. 

She  breathed  upon  the  warrior's  wreath, 
And  while  applauses  filled  his  ears, 
And  earth  her  tribute  paid  of  tears, 
His  glory  withered  in  her  breath. 

She  stood  behind  the  tyrant's  throne; 
His  sceptre  vanished  from  his  hand; 
And  lo !  he  saw  on  sea  and  land, 
His  gloomy  power  was  gone. 

She  fanned  the  lab'rer's  care-worn  brow, 
And  sunshine  falling  from  her  wing 
Into  his  heart,  forced  him  to  sing 
While  leaning  on  his  plow. 

Then  by  his  cot  she  turned  her  flight, 
And  blithe  health  to  the  doorway  ran, 
Contentment's  sweetest  songs  began, 
And  all  within  was  light. 


2l8  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


HYMN  TO  THE  NATION. 


When  Science,  trembling  in  the  lengthened  shade 
Of  monster  superstitions,  and  menaced 
By  raving  Bigotry,  a  dream  embraced 
Of  prosperous  worlds  by  mortal  unsurveyed, 
Genoa's  seaman  and  a  daring  few, 

Wide  Ocean's  stormy  perils  rent  and  brought  her  bounds  to- 
view. 

Who  then  had  thought  that  with  the  Eternal  mind, 
That  in  vast  Future's  covered  bosom  bound — 
Shut  up — by  these  sea-roamers  to  be  found, 
Was  this  green  home  of  poor,  abused  mankind, 
This  land  of  exiles,  and  the  peaceful  borne, 
Where    Babel's   scattered   tongues   shall   yet  to  one  great 
speech  return. 

Fair  Freedom  travailed  'neath  an  unknown  sky, 

And  tho'-the  tyrant  shook  his  envious  chain, 

And  tho'  the  bigot  reared  a  gloomy  fane, 

She  bore  our  darling  of  the  azure  eye; 

Baptized  its  childhood  in  brave  blood  and  tears, 

But  trumpted  her  independence  in  Great  Britian's  ears. 

Astonished  kingdoms  heard  of  the  new  birth, 
And  royal  vengeance  drew  her  warring  blade, 
And  bloody  strokes  upon  Columbia  laid, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  219 

To  smite  the  young  offender  to  the  earth; 

Colonial  hardships  shivered  where  she  went, 

And  border  horrors  thro'  the  years  a  thrill  of  sadness  sent. 

But  patriotism  bold,  sustained  the  blow, 
Returning  deeper  wounds  with  daring  might — 
For  Freedom  ever  steels  the  stroke  of  right — 
And  cool  determined  Valor's  proud  arm  so 
Dismayed  the  imperial  hosts,  that  baffled  George 
Saw  he  could  ne'er  enslave  the  men  who  withstood  Valley 
Forge. 

A  century  has  spun  around  the  wheel 
Of  ages,  and  the  years  in  noiseless  flight 
Have  heaped  their  golden  tributes  to  the  right; 
Till  now  religion  in  her  heavenly  zeal, 
To  mend  life's  ills  walks  hand  in  hand  with  lore, 
Where  clank  the  chains  of  slaves  in  Law's  offended  ears  no 
more. 

Here  honest  labor  trembles  at  the  nod 

Of  no  despot;  and  penury  no  more 

Must  with  her  gaunt  and  withered  arm  implore 

Scant  life,  at  Charity's  closed  hands;  but  God 

Doth  lead  the  bounteous  thousands  as  a  flock, 

And  Peace's  happy  voices  echo  from  the  Nation's  Rock. 

Tho'  at  the  name  Republic  tyrants  mocked, 
Columbia  has  lived  a  hundred  yeafs 


22O  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Thro'  trials,  triumphs,  hopes,  and  doubts  and  fears, 
And  still  she  lives,  tho'  often  tempest-rocked. 
Republic  yet,  united,  one  and  free, 
And  may  she  live;  her  name  the  synonyme  of  Liberty ! 

Go  forth  ye  children  of  the  valiant  land, 

Go,  sound  the  timbrel  of  her  praises  loud ! 

Ye  Alleghenies,  in  your  ascent  proud 

Thro'  cloud-surrounded  realms,  the  winds  command 

That  revel  in  your  soaring  locks,  to  raise 

One  harmony,  and  mingle  all  their  hoarsest  notes  in  praise  ! 

Ye  Rocky  mountains,  as  with  awful  glee, 
Or  icy  scorn,  ye  stare  against  the  sun 
Whose  shafts  glance  harmless  your  strong  front  upon, 
And  splintered  fall,  awake  the  Western  Sea 
To  join  the  thunders  of  your  snowy  reign, 
And  speak  responsive  to  your  neighbors  tow' ring  o'er  the 
plain ! 

Stride  on,  thou  dread  Niagara,  stride  on! 

Thou  lord  of  waters,  in  thy  mighty  wrath, 

And  thy  earth-rocking  leap  into  the  bath 

Of  thunders,  stride  on  !     Omnipotent,  alone ! 

And  from  thy  stony  lungs  her  praises  sound, 

Till  Mexic's  potent   Sea  reply  and  Oceans  shout  around  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  221 


THE  LUTE  OP  AFRIC'S  TRIBE. 


To  the  memory  of  Dr.  J.   McSimpson,  a   colored  Author  of  Anti-Slavery 
Ballads.    Written  for  the  Zanesville,  O.,  Courier. 


When  Israel  sate  by  Babel's  stream  and  wept, 
The  heathen  said,  "  Sing  one  of  Zion's  songs  f 
But  tuneless  lay  the  lyre  of  those  who  slept 
Where  Sharon  bloomed  and  Oreb  vigil  kept; 
For  holy  song  to  holy  ears  belongs. 

So,  when  her  iron  clutch  the  Slave  £>ower  reached, 
And  sable  generations  captive  held; 
When  Wrong  the  gospel  of  endurance  preached; 
The  lute  of  Afric's  tribe,  tho'  oft  beseeched, 
In  all  its  wild,  sweet  warblings  never  swelled. 

And  yet  when  Freedom's  lispings  o'er  it  stole, 
Soft  as  the  breath  of  undefiled  morn, 
A  wand'ring  accent  from  its  strings  would  stroll — 
Thus  was  our  Simpson,  man  of  song  and  soul, 
And  stalwart  energies,  to  bless  us  born. 

When  all  our  nation's  sky  was  overcast 
With  rayless  clouds  of  deepening  misery, 
His  soaring  vision  mounted  thro'  the  blast, 
And  from  behind  its  gloom  approaching  fast, 
Beheld  the  glorious  Sun  of  Liberty. 


222  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

He  sang  exultant :     "  Let  her  banner  wave  ! " 
And  cheering  senates,  fired  by  his  zeal, 
Helped  snatch  their  country  from  rebellion's  grave 
Looked  through  brave  tears  upon  the  injured  slave, 
And  raised  the  battle-arm  to  break  his  gyves  of  steel. 

But  hushed  the  bard,  his  harp  no  longer  sings 
The  woes  and  longings  of  a  shackled  mind ; 
J^or  death's  cold  fingers  swept  its  trembling  strings, 
And  shut  the  bosom  of  its  murmurings 
Forever  on  the  hearing  of  mankind. 

The  bird  that  dips  his  flight  in  noonday  sun, 
May  fall,  and  spread  his  plumage  on  the  plain ; 
But  when  immortal  mind  its  work  hath  done 
On  earth,  in  heaven  a  nobler  work  's  begun, 
And  it  can  never  downward  turn  again. 

Of  him,  whose  harp  then,  lies  by  death  unstrung — 
A  harp  that  long  his  lowly  brethren  cheered, 
May'nt  we  now  say,  that,  sainted  choirs  among, 
An  everlasting  theme  inspires  his  tongue, 
Where  slaves  ne'er  groan,  and  death  is  never  feared  ? 

Yes,  he  is  harping  on  the  "  Sea  of  glass," 
Where  saints  begin,  and  angels  join  the  strain; 
While  Spheres  in  one  profound,  eternal  bass, 
Sing  thro'  their  orbs,  illumined  as  they  pass, 
And  constellations  catch  the  long  refrain. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  223 


TO  THE  STUDENT. 


Who  flees  the  regions  of  the  lower  mind, 
Where  these  distempers  breathe  on  every  wind : 
Infectious  dogmatisms,  noxious  hate, 
Old  snarly  spleen,  and  troublesome  debate, 
Dull  bigotry,  and  stupid  ignorance, 
Proud  egotism,  empty  arrogance, 
And  famous  hollowness,  and  brilliant  woe — 
And  would  to  knowledge's  high  places  go, 
Must  first  in  humble  prayer  approach  the  Throne 
Of  the  Almighty  Mind,  and  there  make  known 
The  purposes  that  swell  an  honest  heart; 
Then  on  the  path  before  him,  meekly  start : 
Asking  of  others  who  have  been  that  way, 
What  of  the  country,  and  what  of  the  day  ? 
Being  certain  ever  to  give  earnest  heed    . 
To  where  the  steps  of  hoar  experience  lead. 
Mark  him  who  ventures  these  means  to  despise, 
And  tho'  his  works  in  gloomy  grandeur  rise, 
Awe  strike  all  earth,  and  threaten  e'en  the  skies; 
Yea,  "tho'  he  flourish  like  a  green  bay  tree," 
His  life  will  a  stupeduous  failure  be. 
'Tis  vain  to  soar  aloft  on  borrowed  wing, 
Or  drink  success  from  favor's  flowing  spring. 
Let  him  who  journeys  upward,  learn  the  way, 


224  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

By  toiling  step  by  step,  and  day  by  day. 
Each  hardship  mounted,  easier  makes  the  nex  tr 
And  leaves  his  pathway  by  one  less  perplext. 
Lo  !  where  yon  dreamer  looks  on  glory's  hill, 
Hopes  to  ascend  without  the  manly  will, 
Bends  round  and  round  some  open  pass  to  try 
With  easy  access,  and  ascend  on  high; 
Waits  for  some  helper  till  the  day  is  past, 
And  night  o'ertakes  a  sycophant  at  last. 
But  honest  courage,  see  with  manful  strides, 
Walks  on  and  enters  at  the  steepest  sides, 
Climbs  long  and  slowly  up  his  rugged  path, 
Awaits  no  aid,  relies  on  what  he  hath, 
Grows  independent  as  his  way  proceeds, 
As  progress  roughens,  less  the  distance  heeds, 
Till  lo !  the  utmost  hights  his  footsteps  meet, 
With  fames  and  fortunes  lying  at  his  feet. 
Then  Kings  delight  to  honor  Glory's  son, 
And  loud  applauses  in  his  footsteps  run. 
Then  mankind  crave  the  favor  of  his  eyes, 
And  heap  his  lasting  tributes  to  the  skies. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  2 25 


Written  for  the  Zanesville  (O.,)  Courier. 

CUSTAR'S  LAST  RIDE. 

Forth  on  the  fatal  morn, 
Proud  as  the  waves  of  Horn 
Rode  the  cavalier; 
Followed  by  gallant  men, 
Far  in  a  rocky  glen 
To  disappear. 

"  Halt !  "  bands  of  Sioux  are  seen 
O'er  all  the  dark  ravine, 
Crouched  in  numbers  vast; 
"  Halt !  "  and  a  hush,  "  Prepare  !  " 
"  Charge !  "  and  the  very  air 
Starts  at  the  blast. 

Long  waves  of  horsemen  break, 
And  hoofy  thunders  wake 
On  the  steep  glen  sides. 
Back  roll  the  columns  brave, 
Back  in  a  smoky  grave, 
Each  hero  rides. 

"  Ready  !  "  their  chieftain  cries, 
Steady  his  eagle  eyes 
Sweep  the  dark  ground  o'er. 
Slowly  the  lines  re-form, 


226  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Slowly  returns  the  storm, 
Yet  dreadful  more. 

"Charge!"  is  the  proud  command, 
Onward  the  daring  band 
Like  a  torrent  dash; 
On  heaving  gorges  long, 
On  groaning  rocks  among, 
With  tempest  crash. 

Up  from  their  ferny  beds 
Dart  fields  of  pluming  heads, 
As  if  hideous  earth, 
Out  of  her  rocky  womb, 
Out  of  an  army's  tomb, 
Doth  give  them  birth. 

.       "  Rally  !  "  but  once  is  heard, 
"  Rally  !  "  and  not  a  word, 
The  brave  boys  rallying,  speak. 
Lightnings  of  valiant  steel 
Flash  fast;  the  columns  reel, 
Bend — reel  and  break  ! 

"  Stand  !  "  cries  their  Custar  proud, 
"  Stand  !  "  in  the  battle  cloud 
Echoes  high  around. 
Answers  the  sabre's  stroke, 
Tho'  in  black  waves  of  smoke 
His  fair  form  's  drown' d. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  227 

Firece  hordes  of  painted  braves 
Melt  down,  for  well  behave 
Horse  and  cavalier: 
As  round  their  chief  they  fall, 
Cheered  by  his  clarion  call, 
From  front  to  rear. 

No  more  their  leader  calls, 
Pierced  'mid  his  men  he  falls, 
But  sinks  breathing,  "  Stand !  " 
And  where  the  hero  lies, 
Each  soldier  till  he  dies, 
Fights  hand  to  hand. 


SONNET.— THE  MONTENEGRIN. 


Undaunted  watcher  of  the  mountain  track, 
Tho'  surging  cohorts  like  a  sea  below, 
Against  thy  cliff-walled  homes  their  thunders  throw; 
Proud,  whilst  thy  rocky  fastness  answers  back 
The  fierce,  long  menace  of  the  Turk's  attack, 
Thy  eagle  ken  above  the  tumult  flies, 


228  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  hostile  plain  spurns,  and  its  prowess  black, 
And  lights  on  strongholds  terraced  in  the  skies; 
There  thou  wilt  quicker  than  the  roe-buck  bound, 
If  bolder  dangers  mount  to  force  thy  pass; 
But  not  till  thou  a  signal  brave  hast  wound, 
That  hears  responses  from  each  peak  around, 
And  calls  thy  comrade  clans-in-arms,  to  mass 
In  high  defence,  when  battle  stern  begins — 
Then  who  can  conquer  the  Montenegrins  ? 


SOLON  STILES.    Humorous. 


To  town  one  day  rode  Solon  Stiles,        « 

O'er  weary  roads  and  rocky  miles, 

And  thro'  long  lanes,  whose  dusty  breath, 

Did  nearly  smother  him  to  death; 

By  ragged  fences,  old  and  brown, 

And  thro'  great  tall  woods  up  and  down. 

Wide  orchards  robed  in  red  and  white, 
Were  singing  on  his  left  and  right; 
The  forests  carroled  by  his  way, 
The  grass  was  chirping,  green  and  gay, 
And  wild  flow'rs,  sweetest  of  their  r^ce, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  22Q 

Like  country  maids  of  bashful  face, 
Peeped  thro'  the  briery  fences  nigh, 
With  bright  hues  in  each  timid  eye. 
The  farm  cows  whisked  in  their  cool  nook, 
And  splashed  within  their  peaceful  brook; 
And  on  his  fence,  beneath  the  shade, 
The  plow  boy's  pipe  shrill  music  made. 

Stiles  saw  all  this,  but  what  cared  he, 

When  he  was  going  the  town  to  see  ? 

The  country  he  had  always  seen, 

But  into  town  had  never  been. 

So  on  he  rode,  with  head  on  high, 

And  great  thoughts  roaming  thro'  the  sky, 

Not  caring  what  he  trotted  by. 

A  little  mule  he  sat  astride, 
With  ropes  for  stirrups  o'er  him  tied, 
In  which  huge  boots,  as  red  as  clay — 
Red  as  a  fox,  some  folks  would  say — 
Swung  loosely  down,  and  dangled  round, 
As  if  in  hopeless  search  of  ground. 

At  first,  when  from  the  woods  he  rode, 

And  high  in  sight  his  small  mule  trode, 

Rough  seas  of  smoke  rolled  on  his  eye, 

Great  dizzy  houses  reared  on  high, 

With  steeples  banging  in  the  sky, 

Then  Solon  stopped  and  said,  "  Umph,  my  !  " 


230  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  next,  a  river  deep  and  wide, 
With  houses  floating  ///  its  tide 
-  He  met,  and  paused  again  to  look, 
And  then  to  move  on  undertook. 
And  spurred  and  spurred,  but  lookedjaround,. 
And  lo !  in  deep  amazement  found 
His  small  mule  stuck,  and  as  he  spurred 
The  more,  the  thing's  ears  only  stirred. 
"Hullo !"  a  swarm  of  blubbies  cried, 
"  Whip  on  the  critter's  hairy  side !  " 
At  this  the  mule  insulted  grew, 
Took  up  its  ears,,  and  fairly  flew, 
Till  near  a  great  white  bride  it  drew. 

Across  the  bridge  rode  Solon  Stiles, 

By  dusty  shops  and  lumber  piles, 

And  where  tall  houses  o'er  him  stood, 

Like  cliffs  within  his  native  wood. 

And  furnaces  with  firey  tongues,  ^ 

And  smoky  throats  and  iron  lungs, 

Like  demons  coughed,  and  howled,  and  roared, 

And  fire  from  out  their  bowels  poured. 

Now  on  and  on,  up  Sailor  street, 
The  donkey  whirled  his  rattling  feet, 
While  either  sidewalk  loud  upon 
A  swarm  of  oaths  were  chorused  on. 
One  tall  boy,  in  this  surging  sea 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  231 

Of  rags  and  young  profanity, 
High  o'er  the  rest,  on  awkward  shanks, 
Like  stilts,  led  on  the  swelling  ranks. 
His  deep  throat  like  a  fog  horn  blew, 
Till  lesser  blasts  their  aid  withdrew. 

Then  Stiles  communed  thus  with  his  mule: 

"  My!  listen  what  a  cussin'  school 

This  town  lets  out  to  fill  the  ears 

Of  God  with  !     My !  them  babies  swears !  " 

Meanwhile  there  came  a  light  brigade, 

To  at  the  donkey's  heels  parade, 

Till  up  before  and  then  behind, 

His  honor  flew  and  then  combined, 

An  old  Dutch  waltz  and  new  quick-step, 

That  half  a  square  of  urchins  swept, 

As  fast  as  leaves  were  ever  seen, 

Brushed  by  a  whirlwind  from  the  green. 

The  tall  commander  now  in  front, 
Led  oathing,  as  his  pride  was  wont, 
The  new  assault,  when  stock  still  stood 
The  mule  away  not  half  a  rood; 
For  lo  !  with  tomahawk  in  hand, 
Before  a  neighb'ring  cigar  stand, 
He  saw  a  savage;  to  describe 
A  chieftain  of  some  bloody  tribe. 
At  Solon  straight  he  raised  a  blow 


23  2  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  strained  with  all  his  might  to  throw, 
But  stayed  his  rage,  for  he  beheld, 
That  with  hot  rage  the  donkey  swelled. 

Ah  !  Solon  felt  his  blood  run  cold, 
For  oft  his  gran' dad  him  had  told 
Of  Indians  in  an  early  day, 
Beside  the  bockwoods  cotter's  way, 
Skulking  to  on  some  settler  fly, 
And  scalp  him  ere  he'd  time  to  die. 
"  Throw  if  you  dare  !  "  aloud  he  cried, 
And  slid  down  at  his  donkey's  side. 
At  this  he  saw  the  savage  stare, 
And  forthwith  threw  his  coat  off  there. 
With  club  in  hand,  the  first  he  found, 
Then  on  the  foe  at  one  great  bound 
He  flew,  and  hard  began  to  pound; 
"When  thus  a  broad-brimmed  vender  fat, 
Began  to  interview  the  spat: 
"  Vat  vas  yer  dun,  yer  grazy  ding; 
Schoost  schtop,  yerpetter  don't  py  jing  ! 
Schoost  vat  yer  broke  my  zine  mit,  aye, 
Eh  !  petter  yer  don't,  yer  go  avay ! " 

"  Well ! "  Solon  thought,  "  If  this  is  town, 
I'll  give  you  leave  to  knock  me  down 
If  I  ain't  lost;  no,  this  ain't  me, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  233 

No,  town  ain't  what  it  seems  to  be, 

Yes,  here  I  am,  and  this  is  me, 

But  town  's  not  what  it  seems  to  be  !  " 


THE  THUNDER  STORM. 

Lo  !  how  the  Heavens  ponder  now, 
They  look  so  still  and  moody! 
And  every  leaf,  and  every  bough, 
Are  in  a  dark  deep  study. 

The  very  air  has  hushed  its  breath, 
And  pauses  in  its  hushing, 
To  hear  the  clouds  that  still  as  death, 
Are  out  of  darkness  rushing. 

The  lightnings  in  their  vivid  wrath. 
The  waving  hills  a  starting, 
Deep  thro'  the  cloud-sea  cleave  a  path, 
From  shore  to  shore  a  darting. 

Loud  thunders  roll  within  the  flood, 
And  night  peers  on  with  wonder, 
And  seems  to  sigh,  in  pensive  mood, 
And  whisper,  "  hear  it  thunder  !  " 


234  MILCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Again  the  thunders  shriek  aloud, 
Far  o'er  the  distance  roaring, 
And  now  from  every  breaking  cloud, 
The  sluicy  floods  are  pouring. 

Upon  the  roof,  the  dancing  drops 
Come  down  with  splash  and  clatter, 
The  lightnings  glare,  their  music  stops 
Now  louder  'gins  to  patter; 

As  if  to  catch  its  breath,  the  rain 
Were,  when  it  thundered,  pausing, 
Then  rushing  on  to  make  again 
The  time  it  had  been^osing. 


TO  BABY'S  CANARY,  ACCIDENTALLY 
KILLED. 


Thou  tiny  cheer, 

So  welcome  wast  thou  here, 

Coming  to  our  home  with  baby  bright, 

To  make  our  hearts  glad,  and  our  burdens  light; 

We  hoped  that  thou  and  he 

Would  merry  playmates  be. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  235 

Thy  voice,  sweet  bird, 

And  baby's  chirp  we  heard, 

But  only  knew  that  both  must  happy  be, 

But  how  much  happier  were  both,  thought  we, 

If  thou  wast  older  grown, 

And  baby  thee  had  known ! 

Now  baby  sweet, 

Looks  at  thy  little  feet, 

And  holds  thy  fallen  plume  in  his  wee  hands ; 

Thy  mournful  fate,  it  seems  he  understands. 

Oh !  we  are  sad  to  see 

Him  gaze  at  us — then  thee  ! 


THE  DESERTED  ROAD. 


Away  thro'  the  blue  distant  hills, 
Thou  windest,  deserted  old  Road  • 
By  farm  houses  brown  and  gray  mills 
And  log  huts,  the  woodman's  abode. 

Since  enterprise  with  iron  speed, 
Steams  on  over  mountain  and  plain, 
Industry  of  thee  hath  no  need, 
Aod  leaves  thee  washed  red  by  the  rain. 


236  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

But  such  was  not  always  the  case, 
For  yonder  where  wanes  the  ago, 
Loud  Travel  with  bright,  hopeful  face, 
Rolled  over  thee  proudly  but  slow. 

Then  rudeness  with  plenty  was  blest, 
And  health  was  the  consort  of  toil ; 
Then  "far  as  the  East  from  the  West," 
Was  business  from  panic's  turmoil. 

But  fast  times  have  lured  with  great  shows, 
The  simple  from  certainty's  shore, 
To  where  wealth  into  wealth  only  flows, 
And  scorns  the  bare  hands  of  the  poor. 

Alas  !  since  we  all  can't  be  rich, 
Allow  the  poor  poverty's  ways  ; 
Contentment  will  bring  all  that  which 
Wealth  finds  in  her  wasteful  displays. 

The  orbit  too  great  for  the  sphere, 
Speeds  motion  too  fast  or  too  slow ; 
Let  poverty  learn  to  dwell  where 
Fair  Plentitude's  hilltops  are  low. 

Ambition  deceives  with  a  smile, 
Those  who  in  the  gust  of  the  times, 
Instead  of  the  sure  calm  of  toil, 
Would  rush  into  wealth-blooming  climes. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  237 

To  speed  on  thro'  life  's  a  mistake, 
To  reach  our  desires  too  soon; 
The  charm  of  expecting  will  break, 
And  bring  on  our  night  before  noon. 

Our  pleasures  reaped  singly  are  best, 
More  lasting  by  far  gathered  slow; 
The  fields  in  sweet  flowers  are  drest, 
That  come  in  their  seasons — then  grow. 

The  many  old  pleasures  that  die, 
Make  but  the  sparse  new  that  remain, 
Which  none  but  proud  fortune  can  buy, 
While  nothing  the  poor  can  retain. 

We  want  on  the  wasting  old  Road, 
To  wake  dusty  travel  once  more, 
To  people  each  wayside  abode, 
And  drive  business  up  to  each  door. 


238  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Written  for  the  Zanesville  (O.,)  Courier. 

OLD  ABB,  THE  WAR  EAGLE  OF  WISCONSIN. 


Heard  ye  of  "Old  Abe,"  the  war  eagle  who  went 
From  his  home  by  the  Lakes  to  the  far  sunny  coasts, 
To  share  the  brave  fortunes  of  that  regiment 
Which  numbered  the  Eighth  in  Wisconsin's  proud  hosts? 

When  army  clouds  mingled  in  that  civil  storm 
Which  hung  o'er  the  Nation  in  deep  low'ring  gloom, 
Above  a  horizon  of  breastworks  his  form, 
The  emblem  of  Liberty,  proudly  did  plume. 

Away  in  the  dimness  of  uncertain  strife 
He  spread  his  bold  flight  towards  Victory's  sky — 
Tho'  treason  smote  hard  at  the  National  life — 
And  soared  to  her  parapets  looking  on  high. 

From  whence  mangled  Slavery,  low  at  the  feet 
Of  proud  stamping  battle,  he  stooped  then  to  spurn, 
And  homeward  flew  back  with  the  brave  boys  to  meet 
The  loved  ones  who  wainted  to  hail  their  return. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  239 


Written  for  the  Zanesville  (O.,)  Courier. 

PROSPERITY  AND  ADVERSITY. 


When  first  the  young  year  inhales  the  sweetened  air, 
And  painted  landscapes  kiss  her  tender  feet, 
Tne  constant  throat  of  music  everywhere 
Is  burdened  with  her  meed  of  praises  sweet. 

The  clear  brook  panting  from  the  ivied  steep, 
A  crystal  tribute  sings  within  the  dell; 
And  in  the  branchy  wood  secluded  deep 
Soft  echo  marks  the  sounds  that  please  her  well. 

Till  blooming  Summer  drops  her  latest  charms, 
Contentment  tunes  her  reed  in  labor's  ear; 
Till  russet  plenty  crowns  the  joyous  farms, 
The  tongue  of  greetings  hails  the  jovial  year. 

But  when  the  sullen  North  begins  to  wail, 
Old  friends  forsake  her,  leaving  one  by  one; 
Till  all  untended  in  her  leafless  vale, 
The  naked  year  is  left  to  die  alone. 

Then  saddened  blasts  convey  her  snowy  bier, 
And  only  blustry  storm  above  her  weeps, 
While  mournful  woods  attempt  a  feeble  cheer, 
And  cold  drear  suns  but  glance  at  where  she  sleeps. 


240  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Wriitten  for  the  Zanesville  (O.,)  Courier. 

A  DREAM  OF  GrLORY. 


True  glory  on  the  earth  is  seldom  seen, 
Tho'  sought  by  many  with  a  jealous  eye; 
For  where  the  heavenly  birth  has  ever  been, 
The  heedless  footsteps  of  the  world  pass  by. 

The  fairest  blooms  are  born  of  humble  weeds, 
That  faint  and  perish  in  the  pathless  wood ; 
And  out  of  bitter  life  grow  noble  deeds, 
To  pass  unnoticed  in  the  multitude. 

But  reared  by  care,  within  the  garden  neat, 
Luxuriant  chances  beautify  the  whole  ; 
While  poison  lurks  beneath  each  painted  sweet, 
And  shoots  a  sorrow  thro'  the  admiring  soul. 

Poor  homeless  hearts,  unpitied  by  mankind, 
And  fortunes  shattered  in  the  adverse  blast, 
Are  signals  that  have  marked  the  march  of  mind, 
Through  boasted  civ'lization's  glorious  past. 

The  dauntless  will  that  scorns  threat'ning  defeat, 
And  breaks  thro'  penury's  strong  prison  bars ; 
Can  plant  on  triumph  s  proud  his  tow'ring  feet, 
And  walk  a  shining  highway  to  the  stars. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  241 


MORTON. 

Freedom,  thy  son  is  dead ! 

Once  more  the  solemn  tread 

Of  the  long,  slow  cortege  echoes  to  throbs 

Of  a  nation's  heart,  and  a  great  people's  sobs 

Around  their  leader's  bier, 

Burst  on  the  sorrowing  ear. 

The  lips  of  mirth  are  still, 

And  the  eyes  of  beauty  fill 

With  big  tears ; 

The  voice  of  love  is  low, 

The  hands  of  trade  move  slow, 

And  toil  wears 

A  deep  grief  on  his  brow. 

The  tongues  of  sad  bells  cleaving 

To  the  roofs  of  their  mouths  speak  not ; 

And  music's  bosom  heaving 

Beneath  its  burden  is  silent. 

Fair  Indiana  weeps, 

The  central  mourner  of  a  group  of  States, 

That  come  with  tears  to  shed 

Around  the  mighty  dead. 

Alas !  poor  Indiana  ! 

Too  late  in  him  who  sleeps, 

Thou  see'st  a  noble  son, 


242  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

So  soon  "worn  out"  and  done ! 

His  voice  is  hushed  forever  in  thy  gates. 

Alas  !  poor  Indiana  ! 

Now  is  a  time  for  memory  and  tears, 

And  lessons  that  fall  from  the  lips  of  years. 

Sit  down  in  the  shadow  that  like  a  dauk  pall 

From  this  sad  event  doth  over  thee  fall, 

With  a  hand  on  thy  heart,  and  a  hand  on  thy  head, 

And  mourn  thy  great  loss  in  the  glorious  dead. 

Thou  hast  sisters  who  may  with  the  mourn, 

But  none  for  thee,  for  none  thy  loss  have  borne. 

Now  is  a  time  for  reflection. 

A  star  has  gone  down. 

But  the  light  that  shone, 

Yet  lingers  on  our  sight ; 

And  we  turn  in  the  direction 

In  which  we  last  saw  it  going, 

And  pensively  pause,  scarce  knowing 

That  all  around  is  night. 

Weep  for  Indiana! 

Ye  her  sisters  who  gave 

Our  flag  an  arm  of  help  in  peril's  hour: 

And  raised  the  injured  slave 

From  iron  heeled  oppression's  galling  power. 

Weep,  States,  for  Indiana! 

Her  Morton  saved  her,  when  she  strove  the  awful  leap 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  243 

Into  Rebellion's  vortex  dread  to  take. 

The  rocky  jaws  of  rum  gaping  deep 

Beneath,  began  her  head  to  dizzy  make ; 

And  wild  hallucinations  that  did  rise 

From  slavery's  hell  of  wrongs  had  sealed  her  eyes 

To  danger;  on  the  brink  a  moment,  lost 

To  Freedom's  sweet  entreating  voice,  she  tossed 

Her  tresses  back,  and  in  fair  frenzy  gazed 

Upon  our  glorious  flag ;  a  mad  cry  raised, 

And  sprang  for  death  ;  but  seized  by  her  great  son, 

Who  to  the  awful  rescue  swift  had  run, 

And  forced  in  herculean  arms  away, 

She  mourns  him,  clothed  in  her  right  mind  to-day. 


Toll  the  bells  for  a  nation's  sorrow, 

Toll  slow,  toll  slow ! 

Chant  songs  of  a  people's  sorrow, 

Chant  low,  chant  low. 

Behold  the  great  man  borne 

Towards  the  waiting  tomb  ! 

Open  earth  !     Give  him  room  ! 

Environed  in  the  gloom 

That  lowers,  mourn,  people  !  mourn  ! 

And  with  the  solemn  boom 

Of  cannon,  and  the  knells 

Of  sad  sorrowing  bells, 

Proclaim,  proclaim  his.  doom  ! 


244  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Efo  glory  was  to  serve  his  State — 

She  gave  him  none ; — he  was  born  great. 

In  his  country's  woe  he  found  his  own, 

His  weal  in  his  country's  weal, 

Self  in  his  great  works  never  was  known— 

A  patriot  true  as  steel. 

Born  to  rule,  he  knew  the  reins, 

And  knew  the  rod,  and  spared  no  pains 

In  using  either,  when  they  need  be. 

As  restless  as  the  uncontented  sea, 

He  knew  no  stand  still. 

Stronger  forever  growing  he 

Was  in  man  will. 

He  was  the  lion  who  could  awe  the  weak 

By  lying  still  in  massive  dread,  reserve, 

Or  fly  upon  the  strong  opposer's  neck 

With  scornful  glare,  and  blows  of  iron  nerve. 

And  sun  ne'er  looked  upon  a  day, 

Since  our  Republic  tore  away 

Her  arms  from  Britain's  clutch, 

That  would  not  have  seen  him  in  front, 

As  in  our  times  his  life  was  wont; 

The  elements  were  such 

In  him,  and  so  combined 

Were  all  the  powers  of  his  vast  mind. 

His  was  no  warrior's  wreath — 

He  not  on  cannon's  breath 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  245 

O'er  red  fields  rode  to  death 

And  immortality ; 

But  strong  for  liberty 

He  rose  in  dreadful  might — 

Dreadful  because  of  right — 

And  with  the  weapons  bright 

That  genius  gave  her  favorite  son, 

He  dealt  dismay  and  death  to  foes 

Far  mightier  than  those 

Who  dare  the  flash  of  steel  and  reeking  gun. 

When  human  slav'ry  struggled  to  extend 

Its  snaky  coil  round  California's  coasts, 

And  thro'  our  trembling  land  from  end  to  end, 

Flaunting  Secession  made  his  open  boasts, 

He  met  the  hissing  wrong, 

And  cool,  and  brave,  and  strong, 

Drove  back  its  forked  tongue. 

When  loyal  heads  hung  down, 
'Neath  mad  opinion's  frown, 
And  tongues  more  fearful  froze; 
His  was  to  oppose 
With  clearest  words  of  stone. 
Hewn  from  the  loyal  block, 
Whose  meaning  always  known, 
With  true  energy  thrown, 
Smote  like  the  rock. 


246  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

When  freedom's  columns  waved, 

And  friends  of  the  enslaved 

Aghast  fell  back, 

His  courage  knew  no  lack — 

He  hurried  to  the  van, 

The  thickest  dangers  braved, 

And  e'er  the  battle  saved; 

So  nobly  he  behaved — 

The  cause  lived  in  the  man. 

He  could  endure,  rebuke,  compel,  entreat, 

Forbear,  defy,  but  could  not  know  defeat. 

First  always  in  the  right, 
Doing  with  all  his  might, 
And  last  to  yield  the  fight, 
His  friends  learned  to  depend  upon  him. 
And  his  foes  feared  to  rush  upon  him, 
And  both  joined  to  wonder  at  him, 
And  slander  ceased  to  thunder  at  him, 
And  envy  ceased  to  sneak  behind  him, 
And  everywhere  applause  would  find  him, 
Till  rumor  held  her  speech  before  him  ; 
And  now  he's  gone,  we  all  adore  him. 

Two  there  were  who  fought 
Our  struggles  dire  ; 
One  in  the  battle's  hell, 
Met  by  destruction's  yell, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  247 

And  the  death  rain  of  shot  and  shell, 

For  his  country  strove  ; 

One  the  great  work  of  love 

With  his  mind's  arms  wrought. 

While  war  in  the  far-off  South 

Mowed"  fields  of  death  at  the  cannon's  mouth  ; 

His  breath  of  fire  and  hail 

Was  not  more  dreadful  that  the  wail 

Of  want  in  the  North,  whose  shiv'ring  blast, 

To  mothers'  hearts,  and  children's  homes  laid  waste. 

When  the  disconsolate  East  was  blowing, 

And  not  a  spray  nor  leaf  of  cheer  was  flowing 

With  life's  heavy  stream ; 

And  when  the  harsh  skies  hissing,  snowing, 

And  low  and  dark  and  sullen  growing, 

Extinguished  sun's  last  gleam  . 

When  little  bare  foot  want  was  going 

From  door  to  door; 

Her  withered  empty  hands  a  showing, 

Her  eyes  running  o'er — 

Telling  of  a  father  dead, 

Who  for  his  country  had  bled ; 

And  of  a  sick  mother's  bed, 

Begging  a  crumb  of  bread ; 

When  wretchedness  her  bare  arms  throwing 

Around  her  children,  looked  thro'  tears 

And  murmured  in  her  country's  ears 


248  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

To  help  her  in  her  sore  distress 
Feed  those  the  war  left  fatherless; 
When  this  hour  came,  the  darkest  hour 
That  e'er  upon  our  flag  did  lower, 
God  called  His  man,  as  best  He  knows, 
God  called  His  man,  and  Morton  rose. 
Like  some  vast  cliff  whose  tow'ring  form 
Awe,  strikes  but  shelters  from  the  storm, 
He  rose,  to  us  a  strong  defense, 
A  tow'r  of  help,  and  good  immense. 

With  Indiana  on  his  back, 

Her  Legislature  off  the  track, 

And  half  the  members  pulling  back, 

He  rose,  the  awful  advocate, 

And  on  the  right  road  dragged  his  State. 

Tho'  wealth  hugged  his  Secession  gold, 

And  with  a  nod  the  weak  controlled, 

Things  had  to  move  when  he  took  hold, 

And  shook  to  life  the  feeble  souled. 

Statesman,  patriot,  sire,  bear  him  away; 
Inter  him  with  a  nation's  honors  to-day! 
He  has  seized  slavery  with  fearless  hands, 
And  thrown  her  gloomy  castle  from  the  sands, 
His  blows  of  massive  wisdom  strong, 
Have  hurled  to  earth  the  tow'ring  wrong, 
But  'neath  its  falling  columns  crushed, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  249 

His  matchless  voice  in  death  is  hushed. 

Beauty,  cover  him  with  flowers  of  his  native  shore. 

Valor,  with  unfading  laurels  cover  him  o'er. 

Freedmen,  bring  your  tears, 

And  till  life's  last  years 

Reach  the  echoless  shore, 

Tell  his  great  deeds  o'er; 

And  soldiers,  wherever  our  standard  flies; 

Or  where  thou  goest  neath  foreign  skies, 

Behold  thy  friend  in  death  low  lies  ! 

Friend  when  you  fronted  the  battle, 

Friend  when  the  cannon's  rattle 

Mowed  a  harvest  of  death, 

Friend  when  "  worn  out "  you  reeled 

Home  from  the  bloody  field 

To  rest  beneath 

An  humble  shed, 

Scanty  of  comfort,  scanty  of  bread — 

Weep  for  him  soldiers  !     Weep  for  your  friend  ! 

And  forget  not  till  your  lives  shall  end, 

To  honor  the  noble  dead. 


250  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


YE  BARDS  OP  ENGLAND. 


England,  cannot  thy  shores  boast  bards  as  great, 

And  hearts  as  good  as  ever  blest  a  State  ? 

When  arts  were  rude  and  literature  was  young, 

And  language  faltered  with  an  uncouth  tongue; 

When  science  trembled  on  her  little  hight, 

And  poor  religion  blundered  on  in  night; 

When  song  on  Rome's  vast  tomb,  or  carved  in  Greek> 

Like  epitaphs  with  marble  lips  did  speak, 

Thy  Chaucer  singing  with  the  Nightingales, 

Poured  forth  his  heart  in  Canterbury  tales, 

With  rude  shell  scooped  from  Eitglish  pure,  and  led 

The  age  that  raised  the  muses  from  the  dead. 

And  gentle  Thompson,  to  thy  mem'ry  dear, 

Awake  his  lyre  and  sang  the  rolling  year. 

The  dropping  shower  the  wild  flower  scented  mead, 

The  sober  herds  that  in  the  noon  shade  feed, 

The  fragrant  field,  the  green  and  shady  wood, 

The  winding  glen,  and  rocky  solitude, 

The  smiles  of  Spring  and  frowns  of  Winter  gray, 

Alike  employed  his  pure  and  gentle  lay. 

The  wrath  of  gods,  and  armies'  dread  suspense, 

Celestial  shouts  and  shock  of  arms  immense, 

In  all  his  song  ne'er  move  us  to  alarm, 

But  earth's  pure  sounds  and  sights  allure  and  charm. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  251 

To  Missolonghi's  chief  of  singers  too, 

Unhappy  Byron  is  a  tribute  due. 

A  wounded  spirit,  mournful  and  yet  mad, 

A  genius  proud,  defiant,  gentle,  sad. 

'Twas  he  whose  Harold  won  hisuNation's  heart, 

And  whose  Reviewers  made  her  fair  cheeks  smart; 

Whose  uncurbed  Juan  hung  her  head  for  shame, 

And  whose  Mazzeppa  won  unrivaled  fame. 

Earth  had  no  bound  for  him.     Where'er  he  strode 

His  restless  genius  found  no  fit  abode. 

The  wing'd  storm  and  the  lightning  tongued  Jungfrau, 

Unfathomable  Ocean,  and  the  awe 

Of  Alpine  shades,  the  avalanche's  groan, 

The  war-rocked  empire  and  the  falling  throne, 

Were  toys  his  genius  played  with.     Britain,  then 

Urn  Byron's  dust — a  prodigy  of  men. 

But  Shakspeare,  the  inimitable  boast 

Of  everybody  and  of  every  coast; 

The  man,  whose  universal  fitness  meets 

Response  in  every  heart  of  flesh  that  beats, 

No  tongue  can  tell  him.     One  must  feel  his  hand 

And  see  him  in  his  plays,  to  understand. 

All  thought  to  him  intuitively  's  known, 

The  prate  of  clowns,  and  wisdoms  of  the  throne, 

The  sophist's  puzzles  and  the  doctor's  rules, 

The  skill  of  warriors  and  the  cant  of  fools. 

When  Shakespeare  wrote,  the  tragic  muse  saw  heights, 

Before  nor  since  ne'er  tempted  in  her  flights. 


252  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  GREAT  STRIKE. 


"  Strike  !  Strike !  Stop  !  Stop  !  "     What  mean  these  shouts 

that  rise — 

This  great  commotion  throughout  all  the  land, 
That  chills  the  circling  life  of  enterprise, 
While  lawlessness  stalks  forth  with  torch  in  hand? 

The  hands  of  Industry  have  to  the  head 
(Aweary  grown  of  swinging  to  and  fro) 
Without  discretion's  sober  forethought  said: 
"  We  ought  to  be  above,  and  you  below." 

Whenever  Communism's  snaky  head 

Is  raised  against  the  heel  of  Capital, 

I  want  it  crushed  'neath  Law's  majestic  tread, 

And  yet  would  heed  poor  honest  labor's  call. 

The  cold  long  Winter  fast  is  coming  on, 
His  near  approach  makes  sad  the  leafless  year, 
And  deep  snows  soon  the  naked  fields  upon, 
Will  hush  the  voice  of  Autumn's  latest  cheer. 

The  burdened  year  will  soon  her  treasures  yield, 
And  pile  our  spacious  barns  from  eaves  to  floor, 
Then  vagrant  want  in  lanes  and  open  field, 
Can  gather  scanty  sustenance  no  more. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  253 

The  howling  winds  will  drive  before  them  then, 
This  drifting  dust  of  Fortune's  feet  in  clouds; 
And  hither  thither  into  ditch  and  den 
Mis'ry  and  crime  will  rush  in  babbling  crowds. 

But  while  the  desp'rate  curse,  while  lewdness  cries, 
And  shiftlessness  ought  justly  to  go  bare, 
Forget  it  not,  full  many  a  Lazarus  lies 
Before  thy  gate  and  needs  a  crumb  of  care. 

While  Wealth  across  his  lordly  arm  will  cast 
The  warmth  of  scores  of  God  Almighty's  poor, 
Still  houseless  want  must  shiver  in  the  blast, 
And  childhood's  feet  go  bare  from  door  to  door. 

While  pride  upon  her  easy  finger  wears 
The  bread  of  thousands  in  a  brilliant  stone, 
The  eyes  of  Wretchedness  must  stream  with  tears, 
And  groaning  labor  be  content  to  groan. 

Let  heaven's  light  upon  our  nature  shine, 
Till  ev'ry  opaque  spot  with  glory  beams, 
And  want  no  longer  at  our  feet  can  pine, 
But  happiness  will  flow  in  living  streams. 


254  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  TRAMP'S  SOLILOQUY. 


Had  I  an  envied  name  and  purse  of  gold, 

My  friends  were  more  than  all  my  wants  twice  told; 

Reduced  to  rags  and  born  of  title  small, 

Vast  tho'  my  wants  I  have  no  friends  at  all. 

Anxiety  consumes  away  my  years 

And  failure  melts  my  manhood  down  in  tears. 

My  down-cast  eyes  some  guilt  seem  to  disclose 

And  I'm  shut  in  a  lazar  house  of  woes. 

I  am  not  what  I  was,  my  drooping  form 

Partakes  of  what  is  loathsome  in  the  worm. 

Pittied  hut  not  respected  I  may  be, 

I  shun  myself,  and  e'en  the  dogs  shun  me. 

The  rich  to  chide  the  poor  may  adulate 

The  few  torn  pleasures  of  a  scanty  state ; 

But  cold  experience  tells  her  story  plain, 

Want  breeds  with  bitterness  and  brings  forth  pain. 


A    HINT. 

Who  seeks  to  show  another's  fault  will  find 
In  self  a  greater  shown, 
But  he  that  is  to  faults  of  others  blind, 
But  covers  thus  his  own. 


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